


Made of Common Clay

by Lomonaaeren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Aurors, Drama, Gen, Harry is Lord Black, Harry is Lord Potter, Harry is not Happy, Minor Character Death, Political Alliances, Political Expediency, Politics, Pureblood Bigotry, Salting the Earth, Torture, cynical harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2018-12-10 21:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 99,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11699844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: Harry has reached a very bitter and jaded thirty. His efforts to reform the Ministry haven’t lessened the corruption or pure-blood bigotry one bit. That’s when he finds out that he’s apparently a part of a pure-blood nobility he’s never heard of before; he’s Lord Potter and Lord Black. Unfortunately, that revelation’s come too late for him to be a reformer. All Harry wants to do is tear the system down and salt the earth. And with a double Lordship, he just might have the power to do that.





	1. Mine the Fault Was

**Author's Note:**

> Content Notes: Angst, violence, torture, politics, present tense, cynical Harry. The rating is for violence, not sex.
> 
> This fic is partially a parody of some of the tropes common in Lord Potter/Lord Black fics. The title and chapter titles come from one of Oscar Wilde’s poems: “Sweet I blame you not for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clay/I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.” I don’t yet know how long this fic will be, but it will get pretty dark.

Harry sighs and signs yet another report. It’s all he can do, he thinks. Sign the reports, bring the petitions in front of the Wizengamot, try to ensure criminals get fair trials not based on their blood…

He tries. But Lucius Malfoy is in power as if he’s never had a Dark Mark on his arm. Muggleborn students at Hogwarts still get the insult “Mudblood” flung at them; Harry knows that Neville is trying to stop that, but he’s not having any more success than Harry is. Hermione reached a certain level in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and then they made it clear she would never ascend any higher. Because she has “dirty” blood and “unimportant” concerns.

The quill breaks in Harry’s clenching fingers.

Harry looks down at the blot of ink on the report, and shakes his head. He charms it away with a sweep of his wand, and glances at the clock on his wall, an ornamented golden hourglass that flips itself over when the sand is finished pouring. The numbers on it change each time it flips, too, to let Harry know which hour and minute it currently is. Luna gave it to him, in days when things felt better.

He supposes he could go home. On the other hand, why not stay here and finish the reports? He has no one waiting for him at home. Ginny get fed up of Harry “spending more time on his job than on her” and “yelling about politics all the time.”

Harry has just got a new quill out when someone knocks on the door. He glances up with a frown. Almost everyone who has any business contacting him at this time of night would either Floo him or send him a Patronus. “Come in,” he calls.

The door opens, and two members of the Wizengamot march in. Harry feels his frown deepen. The nearest one is Catullus Selwyn, who mostly sits up in the highest galleries like a vulture looking down over its kill. Harry doesn’t think he remembers him saying one word. His eyes are dark blue and even now look straight ahead, past Harry.

The other Wizengamot member is Melinda Honeywell, who is probably older than Dumbledore. She leans heavily on a cane as she makes her way into the room, and sits down with a sigh and a shake of her long white hair on the only other chair in the office. Harry expects Selwyn to conjure one, but he just stands there and stares past Harry at the wall.

 _If he thinks it’s interesting,_ Harry decides with a shrug, and turns to face Honeywell. “What can I do for you, Madam Honeywell?”

She beams at him and holds out a thick golden ring encrusted with emeralds. Harry takes it with a caution innate in every Auror by now, given how often they encounter cursed objects. The emeralds come together in a complicated design on top of the ring, forming what he thinks is a lion rampant. He’s never been that great with coats of arms.

“This is yours,” Madam Honeywell says. “It’s your birthday tonight.”

“I—of course it is,” Harry says. He honestly forgot. It was another frustrating day at trial with a pure-blood who he knows will receive only a slap on the wrist because of who his grandfather fucked. He ignores Selwyn’s stiffening. “Did someone ask you to deliver this gift to me, Madam Honeywell?” It doesn’t seem likely, but, well, _more_ likely than all the other scenarios he can dream up.

“Oh, no,” she says, her eyes widening as if he’s made an obscene suggestion. “This is your Lordship ring. As of tonight, you’re thirty years old, and you become Lord Potter. I’m properly _Lady_ Honeywell, you know, it’s just that we don’t use our titles in the Wizengamot courtroom or when talking among commoners. It’s right that someone who’s already a member of the Sun Chamber deliver your ring to you.”

Harry says, “What.”

Honeywell stirs for a moment and glances at Selwyn. Selwyn continues to find the wall entrancing.

She sighs and turns back to Harry. “Of course you won’t have heard of it. That’s one of our methods of keeping it a secret, you see, restricted to those who _need_ to know. Usually that’s only the Lords or Ladies and their immediate heirs. You would have known most of the time, since you would have been raised to be Lord Potter, but…” She bit her lip. “Unfortunate circumstances kept your father from you.”

“I have no idea what this Lordship business is,” Harry says.

It’s pleasantly, for him, but Honeywell still flinches. As if that’s some signal he’s been waiting for, Selwyn stirs and leans forwards. Harry’s wand leaps out of his sleeve in an instant, pointing at him.

Selwyn finally deigns to look at him. Harry smiles. He doesn’t think they’re shocked _just_ because he’s pulled his wand on a member of the Wizengamot. It would have been the speed. Harry’s been faster than most Aurors for years.

“I have another ring for you,” Selwyn says.

“Which one?”

“The ring of Lord Black.” Selwyn looks as though he wants to make Harry pay for the cost of so many words.

“Take it out, then.” Harry makes a little swirling gesture with his wand. “This is getting interesting.”

Honeywell is either going to die of shock or apoplexy, Harry isn’t sure which. But he doesn’t need to look at her after her strangled gasp. His attention is all on Selwyn as he drops the second ring on the desk. Harry looks this one over instead of picking it up. It’s a platinum band, or at least it sure looks like one, with small onyxes placed evenly along it. The crest on top is the Black one, which he knows well from the times that he’s gone to Grimmauld Place to stare at the Black tapestry when he really wants to hate himself.

“Your godfather made you his heir.”

“I think I figured that part out when they gave me his houses and his money.” Harry ignores Honeywell’s faint moan and leans back. “All right. So you keep this a secret. That explains why I never heard of it before. But explain what it _does_. What do Lords and Ladies actually _rule_?” He knows that while Honeywell is modestly wealthy, her family has almost no property.

“Nothing so vulgar as _places_ ,” Honeywell says, drawing herself up. Selwyn has gone back to trying to convince the wall that they’re made for each other. “Blood, Mr. Potter. Lord Potter, I’m sorry. We are the ancient families first found worthy of wielding magic and ruling over the Muggles. We were nobility at a time when the Muggle and magical worlds were joined. But the titles were only the outward recognition of a true, inner nobility that all our ancestors carried within them. The honor, the integrity, the honesty, the power, the strength, the—”

“And now you rule—in secret?” Harry interrupts, because he’ll run out of nighttime before she runs out of virtues. “What’s this Sun Chamber’s relationship to the Wizengamot?”

Honeywell blinks, thrown. “We advise them, of course. Some of the matters they deal with, like the ordinary criminal trials, are too small for us. But when there’s a trial involving someone of noble blood…of course we tell them what we would like to happen.”

Harry can feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears, roaring like an awakening dragon. It hasn’t been just bribes and nepotism that got so many pure-blood criminals off, the way he assumed. It was the recommendation of a bunch of pure-bloods who think that having rings and names makes them more important than anyone else.

“And what about when the trial involves someone Muggleborn?”

“The Sun Chamber has no reason to become involved. Muggleborns aren’t of the blood.” Honeywell looks at him as if he’s a bit slow.

On the contrary. Harry has never felt quicker in his life, as understanding takes wing in his head and flies through his skull. “Is there anyone who refuses to take up their position in the Sun Chamber?”

“Of course not. How would their families stand the shame of it?” Honeywell looks back and forth nervously between him and the rings. “You’re not going to refuse, are you, Lord Potter? You _can’t_. Think of the pride that your father and godfather would have had if they’d been able to take their places! You have to do it for them.”

Harry gives her a smile that makes her clutch her cane. “Only thinking,” he says cheerfully. “Are you _sure_ you want me? My mother was a Muggleborn. I’m hardly of the right blood, either.”

“Your father was Lord-in-waiting when he married your mother, since his father had given up the title some time before that.” Honeywell looks uncomfortable again. “He had the right to do whatever he wished.”

“But I’m a half-blood.”

“But the only representative left of two most ancient and noble bloodlines,” says Honeywell earnestly. “And you were the choice of the Lord Black and the Lord Potter. The _only_ heir designated by either of them. A Lord’s or Lady’s will and actions are sacred.”

Harry smiles down at the rings. He sees Honeywell relax a little in her chair. Selwyn is still staring at the wall, and so Harry discounts him.

He wonders if Honeywell can’t fully see his smile or doesn’t understand the meaning behind it. That’s the only reason he can think of for why she would relax that way.

“What happens in the Sun Chamber?” he asks casually. “Do you debate and vote the way you do in the Wizengamot?”

“Oh, yes,” Honeywell says eagerly. “But, of course, we’re smaller, since not everyone on the Wizengamot has as pure bloodlines as we do. And we don’t get distracted by issues that don’t matter to us.”

 _Which would be things like justice and mercy and house-elves._ Harry reaches out and picks up the Black ring, turning it around. He can’t imagine Sirius wearing it. “Why do you call me by Lord Potter only, if I have two titles?”

“Because Lord Potter is the most senior one, since you’re your father’s heir by blood and your godfather’s heir by action and a distant blood connection.” Honeywell beams at him, which is foolish of her. “Someone who’s talking to you will usually use Lord Potter. But, of course, when you want to cast a vote as Lord Black in the Sun Chamber, all you need to do is make sure that we’re aware of that.”

Harry looks up sharply. “I have two votes?”

“You are the Lord of two families. Of course you do.”

Harry keeps a calm face while cackling so hard internally that they would probably run if they could hear it. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome. Is there anything else I can tell you, _Lord_ Potter?” Honeywell manages to make that word all kinds of strange and insinuating. “I do want to stress that you shouldn’t mention your title outside the Sun Chamber, unless talking to someone else who’s a Lord or Lady. The commoners wouldn’t understand.”

Harry nods casually. “And when do we meet?”

“On days sacred to the sun, of course! Sunday each week, and always on the solstices and equinoxes if they’re not Sundays as well, and on days of solar eclipse, when we come together to help ground the nation.”

 _How is that possible if no one knows about you?_ But that’s not the kind of question that Harry can ask Honeywell. Instead, he tips his head to the side and asks, “What will people think when they see me wearing these rings?”

“They will only see ordinary jewelry. The rings have a modified avoidance charm for everyone who’s not a member of the Sun Chamber, and they won’t take much of an interest in them anyway. The rabble never does.”

Harry pulls his lips back from his teeth. They’re welcome to consider it a smile, if they want. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome.” Honeywell stands and glances at Selwyn, who gathers himself and pivots to face the door on his invisible wheels. “Now, please owl me if you have any questions. I’m your sponsor in the Sun Chamber. The one who will guide your first steps and let you know if you overstep the bounds.” She smiles mistily at Harry. “It’s _so_ exciting having a Lord Potter and a Lord Black back in the Sun Chamber. It’s been _so_ long.”

 _And the one you get will be nothing like you expect._ But Harry stands up and performs a bow of the sort that will serve as a cloak until he can make them see the truth. “Thank you, Lady Honeywell.”

“Such a polite young man,” Honeywell is saying to Selwyn as they leave. “Nothing at all like they said he was…”

Harry waits until the door thumps shut, and even then he casts a spell that will tell him if they’re lingering in the corridor. Finally he collapses back on his desk and laughs until he feels like a howling werewolf.

_They’re buying it. They think that I’m going to be their tame Lord Potter and Lord Black and Lord Fuck-Everyone-I-Care-About._

Harry snaps to his feet and puts the Potter ring on his left hand and the Black one on his right one. Then he strides over to his fireplace. He knows someone else that he bets is dealing with this same situation right now, even if it would have started yesterday. Harry hopes that he’ll be eager to talk.

Sure enough, the minute he calls out the address for Neville and Hannah’s house—Flytrap’s Rest—Neville’s face is in the flames. He waves his hand around in dismay, too fast for Harry to see what the ring on his finger looks like. “Harry! I just got told yesterday that I’m Lord Longbottom! Did you get one, too?”

“Yes.” Harry says. His voice calms Neville down. “They told me that I’m Lords Potter and Black, because of Sirius making me his heir in his will. They told me a lot of nonsense about what I’m allowed to do.” He pauses. “And some not-so-nonsense about how the Sun Chamber interferes in the political process.”

Neville shakes his head. “They didn’t emphasize that so much, but then, I’m not an Auror,” he says slowly. “They talked more about how much I can coddle pure-blood students in my Herbology classes.”

“I’m not surprised.” Harry folds his hands behind his head. “Listen, Neville. You’ve never heard of them before?”

“Of course not! I would have told you.”

Harry nods, not so much reassured of Neville’s trust—he knows he has that—as of the essential sanity of the world. “Well. There was a lot of nonsense about blood, too. But they told me that a Lord’s actions are sacred.” He drops his feet to the floor as he leans forwards. “And, Neville, they settle things by vote. Guess how many votes I have?”

“Two?” Neville whispers. He sounds a little awed.

Harry smiles at him.

“Do they _know_ what they’re getting?”

“Of course not. They think that I’m going to be grateful for it, because Sirius and my father would _totally_ have become Lords just after their model if they’d been free or alive. They don’t even _mind_ that I’m a half-blood. Even though blood is all that matters.”

“But a Lord’s actions also matter.”

“Exactly,” Harry says, and he almost croons the word.

Neville grins at him. “Suddenly this whole Lordship thing is looking a lot better. Want to come over and have a drink? Hannah says she could use some help in calming me down,” he adds, with a check over his shoulder.

“Sure, let me sign one more thing,” Harry says, and spins around and signs his name one more time on the last report. Then he adds a little more Floo powder to the fire to move through, all the while grinning.

Tomorrow, he’ll talk _willingly_ to Rita Skeeter.


	2. Climbed the Higher Heights

“This explains a whole lot.” Hermione’s arms are folded and her nostrils are bulging and her face is red in the way that Harry hasn’t seen her look since she first learned about house-elves.

“Yeah.” Harry sits back and sips from the glass of water Hermione always hands him when he comes through her door, glancing around the office. Some new articles and photographs have replaced the ones that were there last week, but they concern the same issues. House-elves being mistreated and sold, centaurs being hunted, smuggling in illegal bits of magical creatures, someone insulted or dismissed for their blood.

“I can’t believe that they’ve kept it a secret for so long,” Hermione says softly, tracing her finger around the circumference of the Black ring he’s taken off to show her.

Harry turns back and shrugs. “They probably _Obliviate_ someone who insists on talking about it too much. Either that, or use some kind of spells. But they probably don’t have to do that too often. Remember, most of them get raised to think they’re better than anyone else. No one in Sirius’s family could rebel without getting blasted off the tapestry, and there weren’t that many compared to the total number of Blacks. People like things that make them better. Or that they think make them better.”

Hermione nods slowly at him. “Muggles are the same way.”

Harry smiles politely and changes the subject. The Dursleys, and whether he should talk to someone about them, are one of their perpetual subjects of disagreement. “Anyway. You want to sit in on my talk with Rita?”

Hermione’s eyes spark as she sits back, touching her wand. “ _Oh,_ yes. It’s time to remind her that she does things on sufferance around here.”

Harry snickers and picks up the Black ring to put it back on just a moment before there’s a knock on Hermione’s office door. Harry turns around and smiles. “Come in, Rita.”

Rita enters slowly, as she should. He’s never called her by her first name for a friendly reason, after all. But after a moment of scanning him from head to toe as if that would reveal hidden weapons on him—silly, when his hidden weapons are better hidden—she clears her throat and takes the chair across from him. “You wanted to speak with me, Auror Potter?”

“Oh, yes.” Harry pauses. “Except that I don’t think you have the right title. It’s _Lord_ Potter now, you see.” He flicks his wand and removes the charms that prevent most people from paying attention to the rings. He was up half the night figuring out how to unravel them and then put them back.

Rita gapes at the rings for a moment. Harry waits until it looks as if she’s about to speak, and then nods at the second ring and says with an earnest expression on his face, “And I’m Lord Black, too. My godfather willed his title to me along with his house and possession.”

Rita swallows and glances up. “There are rumors sometimes. But I didn’t know there were any Lords left in England.”

“I belong to an organization called the Sun Chamber,” Harry says, and grins at the way her hand immediately cramps as if looking for her quill, although she’s not holding one right now. “They’re Lords, and Ladies too, of old pure-blood families who sometimes interfere with trials and ‘advise’ the Wizengamot when a pure-blood is involved.”

Rita looks as if she dearly wants to lick her lips. “And some of them are members of the Wizengamot?”

“They are.” Harry places his hand over his heart and bows his head a little. “I couldn’t _live_ with myself if I didn’t bring these conflicts of interest and interferences in justice to the public’s notice.”

Rita stares at him for a moment as if wondering if he’s real, then grins and nods slowly. “Very well, _Lord_ Potter. How would you like to make the public aware of this?”

“Through your good offices, of course. I want you to write an article that will let people know of the existence of Lords and Ladies, and how some of them are—less than eager to reveal their existence to the populace. No doubt they are simply afraid of being overwhelmed by the attention.”

Behind him, Hermione abruptly giggles before she stifles it. Harry feels his mouth twitch, but doesn’t look at her. He knows that he’ll burst out laughing if he does, and for _various_ reasons, he has to conduct this interview with discretion.

Rita studies him with an expression that’s not sure if it wants to be delight or not. “A difficult balance to strike in an article,” she says quietly. “We have to convince the public while also convincing the Lords and Ladies that you might have done this out of naiveté, and you really are just overly eager and earnest.”

“And young, don’t forget that.” Harry widens his eyes. “I just turned thirty. It’s nothing compared to people like Lady Honeywell who have been in the Sun Chamber since _their_ thirtieth birthdays. Of course I’m going to make mistakes.”

Rita leans slowly back in her chair. “Aur— _Lord_ Potter, I think I’ve been underestimating how dangerous you are, all these years.”

Harry shrugs. “I didn’t have much scope for action when the pure-bloods kept limiting me. Now I’ve got a power they can’t do anything about, and they _gave it to me._ Tell me, are you going to go sneaking back to them and eat their feces again so that you can get ahead?”

“No matter what you think of me, my lord, I’ve never done that. I’ve always been ready to turn on anyone at a moment’s notice.”

 _And she’s proud of it._ Well, at least Harry knows how to handle her. He’s spent time fantasizing about this, if he ever got his hands on enough power to make a difference.

“And are you going to report on this the way I’m asking you?”

Rita pauses. Then she nods. “It’ll be more fun that way.”

Harry smiles a little. He still needs to keep an eye on her, because she’ll twist around like a serpent, but that’s all right. He’ll need to keep an eye on _everybody_ and try to seize every advantage, the way he has for the past nine years. The point is that now he has the hope that makes the difference. “Then this is what I want you to write…”

*

“Lord Potter! Lord Black!”

The voice wakes him unexpectedly. Harry opens an eye and smiles thinly at the ceiling, alert right away. That’s the way he always sleeps.

 _How nice to know that something enables the Lords and Ladies of the Sun Chamber to break through the spells that should have kept my Floo closed,_ he thinks as he stands up and brushes his fingers through his hair so it’s spiked even more forwards. Then he tugs at his sleeping robe to make it haphazard and stumbles out of his bedroom.

“What is it, Lady Honeywell?” he asks, because it’s her head in the fire.

Honeywell is breathing hard, scandalized perhaps, as she waves around a paper. “Did you _do_ this?”

“Can you hold it still enough so I can see it?” Harry scratches at the back of his neck and gives her a bashful smile. “I’m afraid I can’t focus on it. That’s what happens when I get up so early in the morning.”

Honeywell pauses, then says, “Certainly, Lord Potter.” She straightens it out and lets him see the title.

There’s a picture of him there, wide-eyed and ducking his head and showing off his Lordship rings at the same time, exactly the way Rita took it. And there’s the headline, which is perfect, although Harry only told Rita the tone he wanted and not the wording.

_THE SUN CHAMBER: A SECRET GOVERNMENT?_

Now, though, he has to act as though that’s not what he meant to do at all. He widens his eyes and whispers, “Oh, _no_. She said—she said the interview would be confidential—”

“You ought to know there are never any guarantees with _that_ woman, Lord Potter.”

Harry knows better than that. Rita will do whatever can get her a good story. That means she does have a certain loyalty, although it’s not to people or principles in the way that most would think of it. He bows his head. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. “Does it—I mean, you can control the way people think about the Sun Chamber, right?”

“Most of the time, we can.” Honeywell’s hands are tense with outrage on either side of the paper, which is still spread out so that it obscures her face. “But we can’t use Memory Charms on everyone who saw this.”

 _So it’s Memory Charms. That’s good to know._ Not that Harry thinks most of the pampered pure-bloods brought up to think the Sun Chamber is a good thing would ever talk about it. He trembles a little and repeats, “I’m so sorry.”

Honeywell finally drops the paper and looks at him. Her face is drawn. Harry might feel sorry for her if not for what she’s participated in. “It does seem to have been the fault of ignorance and not malice, Lord Potter. That is what I will tell the others. And of course we, as noble families, have weathered cascades of blame before. It is simply not—comfortable, or a good thing for us.”

Harry nods. “I have so much to learn about being a Lord! I’ll just have to try harder.”

Honeywell finally smiles. “You will do that. And permit me to offer you one piece of advice. You should use my title more often, the way I’ve done with you. Calling you Lord Potter is a reminder of your noble heritage and your duties. You should address me as Lady Honeywell.”

“That’s a good piece of advice,” Harry says. He tips his head down so that he can mask his expression. Bows have a lot of uses. “Thank you, Lady Honeywell. Is this going to get you into trouble in the Sun Chamber because you’re my sponsor?” That information will be useful for more than one purpose.

“Not when I explain the truth behind what happened,” Honeywell says. “But do make sure that you’re on time to our meeting on Sunday. It’s harder to explain breaches of etiquette than mistakes.”

 _Harder to explain breaches of etiquette than something that might put the whole Chamber’s existence in danger? Yes, I believe that. What idiots you are._ Harry lets his bland smile widen. “Of course. Thank you, Lady Honeywell. Can you tell me one more thing? Why is it called the Sun Chamber?” That’s one thing Rita asked that Harry had to shrug about.

“Oh. Because we’re the sun around which everything else in the wizarding world revolves, whether they know it or not. We’re the spiritual heart and moral center for everyone else. And because we possess the clearest enlightenment and the strongest and most powerful magic among wizards, of course.”

Harry nods. It’s so hard to keep his opinion to himself, but then, he has more practice doing that than these Lords and Ladies can know. All the times he’s stood in front of the Wizengamot and watched someone _else_ walk away or pay a small fine because they know the names of their grandparents eight generations back and can probably even write them down if someone gives them a quill and a lot of time…

But he won’t get to be a force for destruction in the Sun Chamber if he shows his hand too son. So he says, “Thank you, Lady. I look forward to seeing you on Sunday.”

“And I you, Lord Potter. Do please do what you can to counteract this story when you hear people talking about it, and be discreet when they ask you questions.”

*

“Mate!” Ron throws an arm around Harry’s shoulders the minute he walks into his office in the morning. “Hermione told me all about it, and that article really strikes the perfect tone, doesn’t it?”

“Apparently,” Harry says gravely as he hangs up his cloak on his hook, “I shouldn’t have revealed the secrets of the Sun Chamber, and I should respect their ancient and noble bloodlines and their enlightenment and the way the wizarding world revolves around them. Because they’re the sun, you know.”

Ron begins to laugh so hard that he wheezes, and sounds like someone punched him in the stomach instead. Harry grins at him and settles down behind his desk, looking for a moment at the place where Ron’s used to stand. He quit three years ago to work with George. He told his mum it was just about giving his brother a reason to keep the shop open, but honestly, it was because of the same sick despair and disgust that has plagued Harry for years.

_Now, maybe he can come back—_

But Harry banishes that thought even as it comes to him. No, Ron is happy where he is, and the shop has grown more in the last three years than it did for the previous nine. Harry himself knows he can’t return to being the confident, enthusiastic young Auror he once was.

_We move forwards and make the changes that way._

Ron finally recovers and drops into the chair across from him. It’s only because someone might come in with paperwork for the Head Auror any moment that he doesn’t prop his feet up on Harry’s desk. But he smiles at Harry in the way that Harry knows means he’s thinking about it. “What do you think—”

Someone knocks. Harry sits back and assumes a blank expression as he calls, “Come in.” There’s no way of telling yet if this is someone on ordinary Ministry business or someone come about the Sun Chamber, and so he doesn’t know if competence or cringing bashfulness is warranted.

Susan Bones walks into the room and stand staring at him. Harry raises his eyebrows politely. It occurs to him that she might be Lady Bones, since her parents and aunt are both dead, but he’s not about to reverse course even if she is. There are some Wizengamot members he likes who are probably “Lords and Ladies” too. It doesn’t mean he’ll spare them.

“Harry Potter.” Susan’s voice is low. “Or so should I say Lord Potter?”

“You should,” Ron pipes up, his voice totally earnest. “And Lord Black, too.”

Susan’s eyes flicker for a second, and then she stands up taller. Her hair is caught back in a long braid, and she has piercing blue eyes that narrow in on Harry. “It’s an honorable position,” she says. “And no one is supposed to know about the Sun Chamber. And it’s already precarious enough for half-blood Lords and Ladies in the Chamber.”

In a second, Harry knows he needs to tell Susan the truth. She won’t like it, but he can’t fool her, and he has serious, traditional reservations against looking like an idiot. “I told Rita because it’s a corrupt institution, Susan.”

Susan couldn’t look much more surprised if he urinated on her feet. No, it’s probably worse than that, Harry amends it to himself. She knows he has a cock. She must not have realized that he has a conscience.

“It’s—it’s tradition! I mean, I don’t really like the base of the tradition, either, but it’s almost the only connection I have left to my parents and my _aunt_ , and it’s a chance to make a difference in a closed group of pure-bloods who won’t listen to us otherwise—”

“Don’t use the word ‘us’ like that, Susan.”

Susan swallows hard. “But how can you turn your back on your family like that? And I know your godfather was hardly a traditional Black, but this way, you have your chance to redeem his legacy!”

“In a room full of people who think they’re more special and enlightened than anyone else in the wizarding world because of their blood. Yes, Susan, I’m sure that’s _exactly_ what Sirius would have supported. And my father, who married a Muggleborn.”

Susan just looks at him. Harry measures the distance he sees in her eyes, and knows it’s too great. She might have similar ideals to him, but they rest on a different base. In her heart of hearts, she accepts the Sun Chamber as legitimate. She wouldn’t think about reforming it—and thus continuing to let it exist—if she _really_ believed that blood was unimportant.

For the first time ever, Harry feels a hot surge of gratitude that he didn’t grow up in the wizarding world. He would probably think family is more important than anything else in that case. Including law. Including justice. Including what’s right and wrong, and combating prejudice.

“You can’t get away with this for long. They’ll stop you once you realize what you are,” Susan says, but her voice is dull.

Harry widens his eyes. “But I’m such a naïve little boy, Susan. Don’t you _get_ it? _I_ don’t. I don’t really _understand_. They’re going to think that of me. They’ve never stopped seeing me as a child, given the ‘Boy’ part of the title they think of me by. And they think I’m inferior because of my mum’s blood.” He leans forwards. “You know the Muggle saying that something’s going to bite you in the arse? Well, _this_ something is going to tear their arses right off.”

Susan opens her mouth, but maybe she realizes there’s nothing she can say. She turns and walks out.

When Harry turns back to Ron, he’s wearing a half-grin, but he also shakes his head. “Was that smart or not, mate? She might warn them.”

“She probably will,” Harry says, although he’s not exactly sure. But it’s always right to be prepared for idiocy when it comes to blood purists. “But they’re not going to believe her, for the reasons I told her.”

Ron laughs again. “If you ever decide that you want to take over the world, Harry, give me time to evacuate Rose and Hugo from Britain.”

“You’ll never convince Hermione to go with them—”

“Who said she would? We’d be right there with you, your Dark Lordship.”

Harry reaches over and touches Ron’s shoulder, once, for all the things he can’t say.

He’s not a traditional pure-blood. He’s so glad.


	3. The Sun Chamber on a Sunday

“Do you wish your parents were still alive and told you about this?” Neville asks under his breath as they wait outside a small round door in an obscure corridor in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It’s painted with a yellow blob that probably looks, to some minds (like the ones convinced that the wizarding world revolves around them), like a sun. “I wish _mine_ were able to. Gran didn’t say a word. It’s because she’s not a Longbottom by blood, and my granddad died the same year my dad and mum—that happened to them.”

Harry watches as a few Sun Chamber members in glittering golden stoles walk up to the door and go through it. According to Honeywell, he and Neville will receive their stoles after they finish their second meeting. “Hmmm? Oh. Well, I wish my parents were alive, but not for this.”

There’s a shocked pause. Harry grins. He’s used to those, even from his friends. He thinks the incidence of them in his life is about to increase dramatically, given that he’s part of the Sun Chamber now.

“What? Why?”

“Think about it, Nev.” Harry lowers his voice as a few people with all the marks of deep and superior inbreeding go by. “Two possibilities. My dad either didn’t believe in all this nonsense, or else he did. If he believed in it, then I would have probably grown up believing it, too. I shudder to think of the person I’d be.”

“But he probably didn’t. I mean, since he married your mum and all—”

“Instead of getting her pregnant and leaving her?” Harry’s been reading books Honeywell sent him over the last few days, all about the history of the Sun Chamber and the “usual” conduct of Lords and Ladies. Apparently, most pure-blood men will take steps to ensure that any half-blood child of theirs stays illegitimate and therefore can’t inherit the title, and pure-blood Ladies or women in line to be Lady pregnant with one will ensure it isn’t born. “Yes, I know. That’s unusual.”

“So he probably didn’t.”

“But the other possibility,” Harry says, “is that he didn’t believe in it and would have grown up and struggled against the Sun Chamber like I plan on doing. Like Susan is doing. I think he’d believe in reform from the inside.”

“Yes?” Neville says, and his voice is cautious. Harry grins at him. Neville takes a prudent step backwards.

“It doesn’t need to be struggled against,” Harry says, watching the last of the line of pure-bloods pass inside. That means he and Neville will enter next, as the last and newest. “It doesn’t need to be reformed. It needs to be _destroyed_.”

And he strides forwards and ducks through the low door into the room beyond, hearing Neville swear in an unsteady voice and follow.

The inside of the Chamber hurts Harry’s eyes. Everything that possibly can be is begilded and begemmed and bejeweled and besplattered with the invisible blood of all the others who have died so the Sun Chamber can have this wealth. Mirrors on the walls bounce the light of the numerous torches and the gleaming ceiling—which shows the sun hovering in a pure blue sky—around so that Harry has to squint through it. Sapphires are stuffed into every crack between stones. Topazes stud the mirrors. The seats are draped with more cloth-of-gold, like the stoles around the members’ necks, and the steps between them are made of marble with plates of silver set into them. On the wall in front of the seats, where the most mirrors are, hovers another representation of the sun, leaping with gold and red. Harry knows from the books that it can act as a scrying mirror or a Pensieve or a means to summon portraits from their own frames, as needed.

Harry turns around and faces their audience, the way Honeywell said to, Neville beside him. The first gaze he meets is Lucius Malfoy’s, full of sneers. Harry smiles back with all his teeth, and Malfoy tries to shuffle backwards even though he’s sitting down. It’s entertaining.

“You agreed that you weren’t going to scare the life out of them right away,” Neville mutters to him.

“Can I help it if some of them are such cowards that it _does_ happen right away?”

Neville’s mouth twitches, and he says, “No, I suppose not.”

Harry would answer, but Honeywell is standing up and spreading her arms, and beside her, a white-haired man who Harry knows is Lord Rytel Greengrass, Neville’s own sponsor. The Lords and Ladies immediately quiet. Harry folds his hands behind his back and tries to look as calm and serious as he can.

When he sees how many medallions and rings and lockets and necklaces the Lords and Ladies wear, it’s an effort. He wonders for a second if the Sun Chamber’s fashions have ever changed with the times to be less garish, but then he decides they haven’t. Of course not. Changes to tradition wouldn’t be _pure-blood_ enough.

“If you will look upon the new Lords, and welcome them into the Chamber,” Greengrass chants.

“Three Lords, although two men.” They must have rehearsed this, but Honeywell sounds a little more graceful than Greengrass. “Lord Longbottom has returned to us after a period of twenty-nine years.”

There is some delicate, raspy touching of fingertips, which Harry supposes is the pure-blood version of applause, and which he can only hear because the acoustics in the Sun Chamber are great. Neville ducks his head and flushes a little. Harry knows his disguise is complete. No one will ever think that Neville is plotting against the rest of them when he acts like that.

“Lord Potter has returned to us,” Greengrass says then, “after a period of twenty-nine years.”

There isn’t as much applause for Harry as for Neville. Malfoy, for instance, keeps his hands in his lap. Harry looks around in interest. It looks—yes, it probably _is_ exactly half as much applause, with exactly half the members applauding. Because he’s a half-blood.

Harry feels like laughing at the sheer ridiculousness, and at the same time, it makes his head ring with elation. They’re _still_ underestimating him, even after the article that Skeeter published outlining what the Sun Chamber is. They still think he’s naïve and a little boy, exactly as he told Susan they would.

_This is going to hit them so hard._

“Lord Black has returned to us,” Honeywell says, and lowers her arms as she bows, “after a period of twenty-five years.”

 _Why twenty-five?_ Harry wonders, but the answer comes to him immediately. 1985 is when Walburga Black died, and Sirius was already in Azkaban by then and Regulus dead, so there would have been no Lord or Lady Black to take her place.

This time, there’s less applause than before. That might be for Harry’s blood status again, or the fact that the Black reputation is less than stellar. Harry just bows his head and lets them assume he’s smiling.

“Please, take your seats,” Greengrass says, and he and Honeywell escort Harry and Neville to seats in the back of the room, on the highest tier.

“Why are they having us sit up here, do you think?” Neville manages to murmur to Harry as they sink onto the incredibly uncomfortable seats—cushions are probably a Muggleborn luxury—and Greengrass and Honeywell head back down to their own chairs. “It seems like they’re doing us an honor—”

Harry inclines his head at the garish sun shining on the front wall of the Chamber. “We’re most distant from the light. And the power, and the government the sun represents.”

“Oh,” Neville says, and his hands fidget for a minute with the Longbottom Lordship ring, which is plainer and heavier than either of Harry’s. “You’re so good at this, Harry. I think I’m going to be horrible at our plan.”

“You sound like you did at the beginning of Hogwarts,” Harry says, and catches Neville’s eye in a firm stare. “Only there’s no Snape to bully you this time. Not that these Lords and Ladies aren’t bullies—I think they are—but there’s no excuse to think you’ll do badly. We’re bloody adults, with _principles_. We’re going to beat them hollow.”

It takes a second, but Neville’s smile comes out, shy and uncertain. Harry grins back and faces the front again just as Malfoy stands up and walks to stand in front of the sun. He spreads his arms in some other gesture Harry supposes is symbolic and beautiful, but only makes Malfoy look like a Muggle crucifix to him.

Harry feels eyes on him from the side, and glances over. There are younger men and women over there; he supposes they’re the “heirs and heiresses” that one of those books Honeywell sent him talked about. It’s Draco Malfoy who’s glaring, of course. Harry grins back and sticks out his tongue.

Draco jerks as if Harry’s slapped him. Harry retains his grin and turns back to the Malfoy on the floor.

“I have called you here to discuss the case of Ifandel Selis,” Malfoy begins. His voice is smooth and precise and insinuating, rather like the slugs that Harry killed in his garden yesterday. “I know his name does not betray it, but he is a descendant of Selwyn by blood. His parents left the British Isles during the first war with the Dark Lord.”

Harry says nothing, but he begins to make notes in his mind. Selis is in front of the Wizengamot right now on a charge of selling “dragon dust,” a Potions ingredient supposedly made from the ground-up shells of dragon eggs. It turned out, when the Aurors arrested him, that some of it really was dragon dust, instead of the fake they’d thought it was. Once they investigated, they managed to link Selis to the murder of three Dragon-Keepers in the sanctuaries he’d sneaked into to steal the eggs from.

The case has been proceeding well, but the Wizengamot abruptly called a halt on Friday. Harry knows why, now.

“The boy in himself is not important, but the precedent he will set is. Can we have our own blood, the blood of the Lords and Ladies, tried in front of the Wizengamot as if he was a common criminal? I create the idea that we petition the Wizengamot to drop the case.”

Harry speaks up before anyone else can say anything. The books said it was okay, once someone else has “created an idea.” “What about his murders?”

“What?” Malfoy frowns at him. So does the younger Malfoy, from the other side. Harry wants to explain to them why their scowls are low-grade, since he’s been frowned at by masters, but he refrains.

“He murdered three Dragon-Keepers to get the ground-up eggshells he was selling,” Harry says, slow and precise. “I looked into the victims’ family connections. Two of them were pure-bloods from prestigious families in Russia. The third was a descendant—although, again, the connection wasn’t obvious from the family name—of the Shafiq family.”

He feels Lady Shafiq stir off to the side. “Are you certain of this?” she demands, and her voice is very low.

Harry turns and bows to her. “I’m certain, Lady. A great-grandson of your grandmother’s sister. The name was changed to Shawne, but the genealogical lines are clear.”

They aren’t, in fact. Harry is creating this out of whole cloth. But he also knows that everyone is forbidden to check books and family tapestries and the like while they’re in the Sun Chamber.

And he knows one other thing.

“Why was this not told to me before?” Shafiq says, and her voice is cold enough that Lucius Malfoy has to pause and look at her. Harry knows nothing about the various hierarchies between the Lords and Ladies, although Malfoy was sitting closer to the front than Shafiq is right now, but he can see the way Malfoy swallows. Good. That means he’s nervous around her.

That will serve Harry’s wish to set the Kneazle among the pigeons.

“We had not done enough research.” Malfoy looks as if he’s a moment from pulling his collar away from his throat, but in the end, it’s probably not a dignified enough gesture for a Lord, because he doesn’t do it. “That—changes the matter, of course. But it does not change the matter that Selis is still of a pure-blood family.”

“And that outweighs the three pure-blood heirs he killed?” Harry asks with intense interest. “Thank you, Lord Malfoy. I didn’t know about the various ways that the living and the dead were considered in the Sun Chamber.”

“Of course it doesn’t _outweigh_ them,” Malfoy says, and turns to snap a glare at Harry. “But his blood means that young Selis should continue to be free so that he can serve the goals of his line in the future. A political slap on the wrist would be of much more use to our goals in the future than a stint in Azkaban.”

“Of use to the goals of _your_ family, Lord Malfoy,” Shafiq snaps, her fine dark eyes narrowing. “And your ally, Lord Selwyn!”

“We did not know that young Shawne was an heir of your family—”

“And now you do. What do you hope to gain from continuing to deny it?”

“It only remains to be seen that—well, to be frank, the heir of your family line is dead, Lady Shafiq. Young Selis is still alive. There is the hope that he can help us in the future, which is not the case with—”

“Oh, but I _can_ exact vengeance. And by the laws of the Sun Chamber, I can bring it against anyone who contests my own responses or my right to do so. Are you going to do that, Lord Malfoy?”

Shafiq has her hand on her wand. Harry keeps his eyes wide and looks from face to face. In fact, he doesn’t have much trouble doing that. In some ways, this is as good as a play.

And even better is the fact that it only took a word from him to start trapping them in the lines of their rituals and tangling the knots of their alliances. It’s still going to be a long, complicated process to destroy the Sun Chamber, but the first steps are as easy as a dance.

“No one questions your right to seek vengeance, Lady Shafiq.” Malfoy has his hands spread as if he’s trying to press down rising waters. “But I do want to know why we weren’t aware of this information about the Shawne Dragon-Keeper before, and how Lord Potter came to be aware of it—”

“I am an Auror working on the case,” Harry says, and draws himself upwards while doing his best flounce-in-a-chair. “And are you questioning my _word?_ Lady Honeywell told me that the word of a Lord is considered sacred. So did the books she sent me. Were they _wrong_? Am I going to be questioned because of the old grudge that you hold against me?”

Malfoy’s cheeks turn red. “Forgive me, Lord Potter,” he says, between gritted teeth. “I only meant that we don’t have all the evidence yet.”

“We have his word.” Shafiq is on her feet, her wand dangling in her hand, her eyes hard and clear. “And my challenge. Where shall we meet, Lord Malfoy, Lord Selwyn? The dueling ground is up to you, as choice of outcomes is up to me. I shall tell you, it is going to be to the death.”

Malfoy looks around the room as if asking for help. Selwyn has turned his head to pin Lady Shafiq with his eyes, but she doesn’t look as if she minds. Unlike the wall in Harry’s office, she’s just not that into him.

“I—I ask for forgiveness, then.” Malfoy looks as if he’d rather eat every lemon in Britain. “The light of the sun must pierce everywhere, and shine even into the hearts of those who serve it. I withdraw my petition for forgiveness for young Selis. And I agree that we should stop trying to influence the Wizengamot in his direction.”

Shafiq takes a moment to think about that. Then she turns to Selwyn.

Selwyn stands up and continues glaring. Then he says, “My honor was impugned. I will meet you on the field in front of my secondary manor house, Lady Shafiq, at dawn tomorrow.”

“It shall be so,” Shafiq says, and twirls her wand. The sun pictured on the chamber wall throbs and sends out a blur of light. Harry would be impressed by this if he hadn’t seen it before. It’s just a modification of a charm that’s meant to brighten a _Lumos_ so Aurors can use it to search underground caverns.

The two of them sit down, still glaring at each other. Harry glances off to the side and tries to locate a Selwyn or Shafiq heir among the younger witches and wizards over there. He doesn’t see anyone with Selwyn’s unique pickled look, but he does see a young woman peering anxiously at Lady Shafiq. No way is she thirty.

Which means there could be a seat left empty in the Sun Chamber, no matter how the duel falls out.

The rest of the business in their meeting is unimportant, mostly involving medallions awarded to some Lord for the length of his service and a resolution to “increase the shine of the Sun Chamber in the affairs of the Wizengamot,” whatever that means. A few people do try to discuss the newspaper article, but no one seems concerned. It will blow over, say their responses. They don’t need to worry because people will forget about it since there’s no scandal involved.

Harry has to grin and duck his head again. That’s what _they_ think.

“What’s going to happen when it turns out that Shawne isn’t a descendant of the Shafiq line?” Neville asks him quietly under the noise of people getting up to go.

“Why would they find that out?” Harry asks him.

“Well, I mean, when they do their own investigation, and figure out that you invented—”

“They can’t do an investigation.” Harry really will have to stop grinning before they walk in front of someone who will be suspicious, like Malfoy. “They can’t doubt my word. It’s sacred, Neville. They have to believe whatever another Lord or Lady says about someone who’s not another Lord or Lady.”

Neville stares at him. “That’s _daft_.”

“But useful.”

Neville shakes his head, looking as if he’s on the verge of laughing, but someone else interrupts before he can say anything. Draco Malfoy has stomped up to stand in front of them and is standing there with his arms folded.

“You finally took over your titles and you think that you can just embarrass my father like that, Potter? You think that you’re _worthy_ of being here? You’re less than your Mudblood friend.”

Neville’s hand flashes down to his wand, but Harry stops him with his hand on his wrist. “Goodness,” he says gently, “I think someone is jealous that he’s thirty but his father is still alive, which prevents him from claiming the Lord title. And I see someone is also a greater embarrassment to his father than I could ever be.”

Draco’s brow wrinkles. “What—”

“Not using my title when you know it exists, _Heir Malfoy_.”

Draco turns so pink that he looks like he’s about to boil over. “I—I apologize, Lord Potter.” And he steps back and keeps his gaze on the floor as Harry and Neville sweep past him and towards the door.

Neville waits until they’re outside and alone in a lift before speaking this time. “You’re _terrifying_.”

Harry smiles beatifically back at him. “They should never have given me this weapon.”


	4. The Larger Day

“Did you have something to do with this?”

Hermione sounds as if she doesn’t know whether to be happy or frustrated as she slaps the _Daily Prophet_ down in the middle of the table where Harry is having breakfast. Harry only smiles at her. She’s welcome to come through the Floo anytime, which is why he didn’t even look up when she did.

He leans over and reads the headline. It talks about Lord Selwyn’s death in a duel yesterday morning at the hands of Lady Shafiq. Of course, they don’t use the titles, just “Mr.” and “Madam” and their last names. Harry can’t help smiling.

“ _Did_ you?”

“I may have brought up an entirely imaginary pure-blood ancestry for one of Selis’s victims,” Harry says, and takes a long drink of his tea. If he swirls it around first, like he’s giving a toast, that’s no one’s business but his and Hermione’s. “They were getting ready to excuse him on the grounds of relation to the Selwyn family. I said one of the victims was related to the Shafiq family.”

“ _Harry_. What happens if they investigate and learn it’s not true?”

“They can’t, not unless I make an assertion about another Lord or Lady.” Harry makes a face. He hates saying those words. There’s no real nobility in the Sun Chamber, no greatness of character. “If it’s about someone else, even if that person is related to a pure-blood family or says they are, they have to take it at face value.”

“They really are mad.”

“Yes, proposing duels to the death on the grounds of someone else’s assertion usually is,” Harry says, and takes one more look at the defiant face of Lady Shafiq on the cover of the paper before he stands. “I have to go. Some special meeting the Aurors are having about progress on a case I used to be assigned to.”

“Why aren’t you assigned to it anymore?”

Harry looks at her and cocks his head slightly, letting his fringe swish aside from his scar. “Assign a suspected neo-Death Eater to be under the supervision of the Boy-Who-Lived? My oh my, Hermione.”

Hermione sighs, but her lips twitch in spite of herself. “I suspect that you’re not really sorry.”

“Only because if I was tracking him, the evidence that proved the bastard’s complicity in that Muggleborn murder of five years ago wouldn’t have gone missing.” Harry sighs and floats his teacup and bacon-greased plate to the sink, then casts the charm that starts them washing up. “I’ll see you this afternoon?”

“Yes, Molly wants us all over at the Burrow to celebrate Ginny’s—” Hermione breaks off and bites her lip, deciding that the kitchen counter is fascinating.

Harry rolls his eyes. “It really doesn’t matter to me, Hermione. Ginny was right to break up with me. I’m not a fit partner for someone who’s content to live in the world as it is.”

“And, of course, not bitter at all,” says Hermione. Harry only gives her a wicked grin before he disappears into the flames.

*

Harry was already on high alert from the minute he stepped into Kingsley’s office, and now it’s only becoming worse. No one else is here. That _could_ be explained by Harry being early, but not for this long. And Kingsley’s eyes keep alternating between Harry and the door as though he expects Harry to leap up and storm out.

Or someone else to come in. Harry takes his wand out of his sleeve and leans it on his knee. Kingsley flinches a little.

“What is this meeting really about? Not the case that I got pulled off, or there would be more people here to yell at me.”

Harry speaks pleasantly, but it makes Kingsley flinch again. Then he sighs and says, “I’m not in the Sun Chamber, but I know about it, because one of my relatives is Lord Shacklebolt.” That makes Harry want to snort. He _knew_ the knowledge wasn’t confined to just Lords or Ladies and their heirs. “And I have some idea of what you’re intending to pull. Let it alone.”

“Really? When they were trying to get Selis off on a technic—no, I can’t even call it a technicality, it was simply _idiocy_. One’s blood doesn’t prove guilt or innocence, or value to our society. And you want me to _let it go_?”

“Auror cases get ruined all the time. For lack of evidence. For an Auror making a mistake or being too eager to arrest the first guilty-looking person. We have to concentrate on who we can and put some people in prison, not all of them.”

“But when we disproportionately put Muggleborns in prison? Shouldn’t we investigate why that is?”

Kingsley doesn’t answer.

Harry gets up and turns his back to look out through the enchanted window. Kingsley always keeps it tuned to an image of a grey cityscape, which Harry doesn’t understand, but it’s his office. At the moment, Harry’s magic is flexing and working through his muscles in a way that makes him have to clamp down so he doesn’t break anything.

“The Sun Chamber has been the way it is for a long time,” Kingsley finally says, and his voice is so weary that Harry would feel sorry for him if it didn’t seem like Kingsley is on the side of pure-blood _bigots_. “They’ll do almost anything to defend their privileges. You—you can’t change them, Harry.”

“I don’t want to.”

Kingsley pauses. Then he says, “The way that you handled Lord Selwyn and Lady Shafiq argues otherwise.”

Harry smiles at the window and says nothing. He’s not going to tell the truth to Kingsley like he did to Susan. Susan is limited in acting against him because of the way the Sun Chamber functions. Kingsley could go and tell someone anything he wants because he doesn’t hold the title.

Some of those rules are bloody useful, Harry will admit. But that doesn’t mean they’re useful enough to keep around permanently.

“Harry, are you listening to me?”

“Do you intend to demote me from my position?” Harry asks, cocking his head. He doesn’t think Kingsley actually has the authority to do that anymore. Kingsley has a position of respect in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that involves working with Aurors and anyone else who brings in evidence on crimes, but he’s no longer Minister or Head Auror.

“I’m telling you to be careful. This crusade of yours—”

“To see that everyone who gets arrested is treated fairly? To not have criminals sent to prison _based on their blood_?”

Kingsley sucks in a sharp breath and is silent. Then he says, “Most of the time, you know, the—the system doesn’t cause as much trouble as that. It’s not the same as if the Sun Chamber was advocating sentencing innocent Muggleborns. _That_ would be something to interfere with. But instead, they’re just asking for leniency with pure-blood criminals.”

“Who often killed or swindled or robbed Muggleborns. But _that_ doesn’t matter, either, does it?”

Kingsley stays so still that Harry turns around to watch him. Kingsley has his head bent so that he’s staring at the desk.

“I’ve tried for so many years to guide the Ministry in the direction I think best,” Kingsley says. His voice is weary. “While I was Minister, I could use my power openly. Then I had to start doing more subtle things when I lost that position.” He raises his head and gives Harry a glimpse of eyes as weary as the desert. “Do you think you’re the _only_ one working for change, Harry? I’m trying. But it doesn’t help when even my allies insist on turning against me.”

Harry shakes his head. “The problem is, Kingsley, we can’t take years of subtle prodding and speeches and all the rest. We’ve already taken those years, and they haven’t changed anything. Besides, you want to reform the Ministry, right?”

“Yes.” Kingsley gives Harry a weird sideways look.

“And you want to reform the Sun Chamber.”

“I don’t think there’s a force on earth that can actually change the Sun Chamber.” Kingsley rubs his face.

“I’m not interested in reform,” Harry says. “I’m interested in _stopping_ them. I told you once why I didn’t think it was a good idea to keep on any of the current Wizengamot members who are also idiots about blood purity. You disagreed with me then. It sounds to me like we disagree now, too. There’s absolutely _no_ reason for me to go along with you when it accomplishes nothing.”

“We’ve won some victories! That law we got passed through the Wizengamot saying that Muggleborn Aurors had to be a certain proportion of the corps—”

“It was overturned the next month,” Harry says, and his lip curls. Honestly, he’s done with this conversation. “Was there really anything that you wanted to say to me about a case, Kingsley? Or was this whole thing a ruse to tell me how good I have it as a member of the Sun Chamber?”

“Don’t squander the position. The Wizengamot listens closely to the Sun Chamber, even those members of the Wizengamot who aren’t Lords and Ladies. Try to bring back the legislation we need. Speak softly. Be as subtle as you can. That isn’t something they’ll expect from someone with your record.”

“Indeed,” Harry says softly. “I’ll be subtle.” But on what goals, he isn’t about to say, because he and Kingsley don’t have the same perceptions of anything anymore. Harry can’t even feel sorry about that the way he can with Susan. Kingsley has been fighting in the trenches of the Ministry reformation effort with Harry, and he still acts as though he’s ignorant. It’s time to leave him behind and move on.

“Thank you, Harry.” Kingsley bows his head and waves his hand to the door. “I’ll let you go now. I’m not foolish enough to try and keep a Lord of the Sun Chamber here.”

 _Words,_ Harry thinks as he stalks out of the room. _It’s all words._ Honeywell admitted that the Lords and Ladies mostly don’t have lands they’re responsible for, or even money to invest or houses to take care of. Most of them aren’t known for charitable donations or activism on the behalf of anyone except fellow pure-bloods. They do literally _nothing_ except swank around wearing rings and adding the words “Lord” and “Lady” to their surnames. Harry could call himself King-God-Emperor of Surrey and it would mean as much.

Well, Harry will use their words against them. He’ll shove them down their throats and make them _choke_ on them.

*

Harry puts down the book, yet another one of the informational ones Honeywell sent him, on his desk and cocks his head. There was a shuffle and a clink in the corridor outside his office door. Small, but those are the kinds of sounds that Harry trained to listen for. At least half the Dark wizards he faces like to employ blades, often because they’re conducting a sacrificial ritual when Harry comes to arrest them.

And it’s after eight in the evening, when few people are going to be in the Ministry for any legitimate purpose.

Harry smiles a little and draws his wand. He’s been expecting something like this, to tell the truth. Lords and Ladies can’t doubt each other in public, but the books are full of chatter about how they tend to settle grudges in private. The books seem to think it’s heroic and terribly romantic.

The various Head Aurors and Heads of the Department have never let Harry set any traps or curses around his door that would protect his office adequately. That’s all right. Harry doesn’t need them.

He sinks back into the corner where he’ll be behind the swinging door, and watches calmly as it bursts open. The dark-cloaked figure hesitates a moment when it realizes that Harry is no longer behind his desk, getting tangled in the chair as he starts to his feet.

A moment is all Harry needs.

Harry spins out from behind the door and casts a spell that angles down and curls around the dark figure’s feet. It’s a Golden Net, which binds a wizard’s wand and prevents him or her from casting spells that are Dark. Harry feels the magic in his stomach squirm with excitement when his attacker manages to jump and escape the Net.

A professional assassin? It’s almost a year since one of those got sent after him. And it means that he cost the Lord or Lady who decided to do this a good many Galleons.

Good. Harry _loves_ depriving his enemies of things.

The assassin is light on his feet—Harry is almost sure it’s a he, despite the thick weave of the hood draping over the face—as he moves opposite to Harry. Harry steps delicately to the side, his head bowed. He protects his throat and his groin with his hunch, and for a moment the assassin hesitates.

Then he strikes with a spell that will cut through Harry’s tongue as if acid dripped on it and render him unable to speak incantations, or probably concentrate through the pain. Harry laughs aloud and drops beneath it.

He reaches for magic that isn’t illegal or Dark Arts, but only on those technicalities beloved of the Wizengamot and the Sun Chamber. “ _Seco angulum_!”

The wizard’s foot topples off to the side, neatly severed. Harry grins as he bounces to his feet, the battle-blood flooding his veins. He spins out of the way of the next disorganized spell, and stalks forwards.

The assassin fumbles desperately for his wand. He’s in shock, probably from blood loss, and still trying to understand what’s going on, Harry thinks. The reason the Ankle-Removing Curse is so nearly Dark is that it doesn’t use a line of light or anything else that would warn its victim what’s about to happen. It simply focuses the casting wizard’s will on the foot and severs it that way.

But this is a trained assassin, and he aims his wand at Harry. His spell is silent, but Harry knows that wand movement.

He even has a use for it.

Harry spins to the side, exposing his shoulder to the curse, but keeping his head and his ribs and other vulnerable parts of his body near his inner organs or brain away from it. This is a particular curse that can’t be handled by any shield charm in existence. Harry still could have dodged, but he wants to come out of this scathed.

He wants to see the expressions when he walks into the Sun Chamber tomorrow with his wound.

The spell hits his shoulder and cracks the bone a bit, making Harry hiss between his teeth. But it’s his left arm, and he needs his right one only. The pain hasn’t faded before he’s casting a curse that causes a hovering streak of red light to extend from his wand. Harry lowers it until it hovers just over the assassin’s genitals.

The assassin freezes. Harry’s certain he can feel the heat from the spell.

Harry smiles. “Now,” he says. “I can cook your cock and cause you really _excruciating_ pain, or you can tell me who sent you here. Did they want me dead or only wounded? And who paid you?”

He waits. In his experience, most assassins are cowards, but this one does take longer than Harry expected to think about it. Harry is actually lowering his wand when the man’s nerve breaks and he blurts out, “Lucius Malfoy. Wanted you dead.”

Harry blinks. The news of his death isn’t much of a surprise, since he thinks most of the Sun Chamber would probably be happier without a Lord Potter or a Lord Black, but it’s odd that it’s Malfoy. He didn’t strike Harry as having the nerve. “Oh? What was his motive?”

“He said—he said he was acting together with several other members of the Wizengamot.” The assassin licks his lips and watches Harry’s wand hand. “They pooled their money. It was a lot of Galleons.”

“Hmmm.” Harry has to smile. He must have made more enemies than he thought. Perhaps more of them noticed what he was doing with Selwyn and Shafiq than he guessed at the time. Or perhaps they simply see him as the instigator of the duel even though they haven’t divined his ultimate purpose.

“What are you—going to do with me?”

“Oh. I could cook you,” Harry says, and watches as the man’s eyes widen. “But I do think the stench of burning human flesh gets a little overwhelming unless you like that sort of thing more than I do. So. I’m going to let you go if you swear an oath to return Malfoy’s Galleons to him. Don’t tell him why. Just dump the Galleons on his doorstep, in fact.”

The assassin bobs his head so hard that his hood falls back. Harry carefully memorizes his face, but it’s not one he recognizes. In fact, he looks so much like Pettigrew with his weak chin and trembling nose that Harry thinks he’ll just consider him Pettigrew Mark Two. “Yes, yes! I swear!”

“Now, now. I want an oath on your wand.”

“I promise on my wand that I’ll dump all the Galleons on Lucius Malfoy’s doorstep and leave Britain and never come near you again!”

Harry laughs a little. “That will do.” An oath made on a wand isn’t as binding as an Unbreakable Vow, but it _will_ snap the wand if the wizard breaks his word. That makes it secure enough for Harry. “Now, get out of my sight.”

The assassin uses his wand to scoop up his severed ankle and levitates out of the room, looking back at Harry as if he thinks that he might change his mind, and only pulls his hood back over his head after he nearly stumbles into the wall. Harry dismisses him with a snort and stands there, tilting his head as he closes his eyes.

He’s going to savor walking into the Sun Chamber. Even the gold stole that hurts his eyes and is really too heavy for his neck is going to feel good

And now, he supposes, he should see to tending the wound in his shoulder. Only a little. He wants to leave enough that it’s visible.

And see who stares tomorrow, and who flinches.


	5. The Wildness of My Wasted Passion

“You know, you _could_ have applied some healing salve to your wound, and it would still have looked appropriately horrible when we walked into the Sun Chamber,” are the words Neville uses to greet Harry when he steps into the lift that will take them down to the level of the door.

Harry snorts. “Don’t you start. Hermione was already after me because she thinks I left the wound too untreated to make a point.”

“Did you?”

“What, leave it untreated to make a point? Of course. Leave it too much so? Of course not.” Harry winces a little as the lift jolts down a level, but doesn’t make a sound of pain, because that would give his friends too much satisfaction. “Hermione means well.”

“I’m not the one you have to convince of that.” Neville eyes the way Harry’s left arm hangs limply, and winces himself.

“No, I’m saying it to convince myself. I read somewhere in a Muggle psychology book that the more you repeat something, the more you believe it.”

Neville laughs aloud as they step off the lift, and a few members of the Sun Chamber walking ahead of them turn around and stare unblinking. Harry watches their faces carefully. He sees the moment a man who must be Lord Macmillan, by his resemblance to Ernie, catches sight of his shoulder.

The way he blanches tells Harry that he was almost certainly one of those who gave Pettigrew Mark Two the money. Especially since he doesn’t come up to exclaim in concern, the way the Ladies do, but rushes ahead and disappears into the Chamber.

“Lord Potter! Have you hurt your shoulder?”

“I faced down a hazard,” Harry says, and smiles blandly at them while they flutter around him, not touching his wound but peering at it so closely that he can feel their breath. “A hazard of my profession.”

“Of course, you have been an Auror for a _long_ time,” says the taller of the two Ladies. She has a smile that might be charmingly frank and open if it wasn’t eager after gossip right now, and eyes that might be pretty if not for generations of pure-blood inbreeding. “I don’t think we’ve met formally, Lord Potter, Lord Black, Lord Longbottom. My name is Anastasia, Lady Kerokuk.” She extends a languid hand.

Harry contains his laugh at the name that sounds like a chicken fighting to assert its place in the farmyard, and bends over her hand instead. He can’t bring himself to kiss the back, but Kerokuk looks as if she’s young enough not to expect that. “Thank you, Lady Kerokuk. I’m Harry, Lord Potter, Lord Black.”

The words curl like acid over his tongue. Well, it doesn’t matter. The Sun Chamber’s meeting isn’t the only one he’ll have today, and the second meeting is a step further along the path to destroying his titles forever.

“Veronica, Lady Fleecebound,” says the other woman, and tries to make him believe that she can see at the speed her eyelashes are batting. “How _daring_ of you to survive an attack on your person, Lord Potter. You must tell us all about it.”

“I will,” Harry promises, and smiles at them as they continue ahead. It’s easy to keep aiming that smile at their backs. It’s not his fault that it twists a little and they would probably scream if they looked back.

“Keep steady, mate,” Neville mutters beside him.

“I _am_ steady. It’s just that it’s a good thing Legilimency is forbidden in the Chamber, because they wouldn’t like the contents of my head.”

“How many of them do you think know Legilimency?” Neville lowers his voice as they await their turn to go into the Sun Chamber and be blinded. “And could they use it so we wouldn’t detect it?”

“They would probably dare lots of things if they thought they wouldn’t be detected,” Harry murmurs back. “But there are spells on the Sun Chamber that discourage it. And there’s no guarantee that they wouldn’t run into someone who’s an Occlumens. If an Occlumens Lord or Lady accuses someone else of Legilimency, they’re believed at once. Occlumency is a passive art, and you’d only have cause to pay much attention to that part of your mind if someone was trying to read your thoughts.”

“Another useless rule.”  
“Another convenient one,” Harry corrects. He suspects a lot of these rules were probably created to suit the convenience of some ancient Lord or Lady, and everyone forgot about that later and treated them as sacred tradition.

They enter the Sun Chamber before Neville can answer, and Harry makes sure that his left shoulder is facing a few more people as they glance up automatically to see who else is coming in.

Malfoy, yes, his face is getting paler. And Applebough, the Lady who draped the stole across his shoulders last time. And Atlas Parkinson, _what_ a surprise, after the embarrassment Harry caused his daughter after the war.

Honeywell immediately flings her way to her feet and hobbles at him, but Harry doesn’t think she was in on the plot to kill him. She is a true believer, and she was too cheered at the thought of having Lord Black and Lord Potter back in the Sun Chamber. She might not mourn him if he died in a duel, but assassination isn’t supposed to kill a Lord or Lady.

 _Officially_ , Harry thinks, and puts his hand out to rest it on Honeywell’s arm and calm her down.

“Oh, Lord Potter, your _poor_ shoulder!” Honeywell is almost in tears as she clutches at his hand and stares at the wound. “That looks _dreadful_! Who knows what it looked like when the spell actually struck you?”

“Well,” Harry can’t help saying, “I know, and the assassin does.”

Honeywell doesn’t even seem to notice his humor as she lifts her stricken eyes to his face. “Oh, my, Lord Potter. What are you going to do now? Are you close to catching the people who did this?”

Harry locks his eyes on Malfoy, who’s nearest. Lucius looks like he wants to faint and vomit and crawl under the seat, all at once. “I have some ideas. Time will tell if they’ll be carried out.”

Honeywell still looks disturbed, but she pats the air above his shoulder and sighs. “All right, Lord Potter. Please let me know if I can help you with your investigation in any way.”  
“I’ll let you know,” Harry says, and winks at her in a way that makes her smile faintly before she goes back to her seat.

Harry doesn’t sit down. He stands to one side of the sun, not blocking it but in a way that the books say the Lords and Ladies use for announcements. Gradually, voices drift off and people turn to look at him. Neville remains standing behind him. Ostensibly, that’s because he and Harry are supposed to sit next to each other and it would be useless for him to sit down and then have to stand up to let Harry by, but Harry’s content that the smart ones will read the signal for what it is.

And the ones who aren’t that smart will just have to put with the surprise when it’s sprung on them later.

“I’ve noticed the attention to the wound in my shoulder,” Harry says, and his voice is earnest. “I fought off an assassin yesterday evening who came to attack me in my office in the Ministry.”

Someone stands up and shouts, “Outrageous!” Harry slowly inclines his head in that direction. He sees the pale faces turn whiter and whiter, and he smiles. He’s glad that he took time to prepare his speech, which should send them into cardiac arrest.

“I did not extract a list of names from the assassin,” Harry says, his voice low and his eyes direct the way he used to have them when he reported to Kingsley. “The man was too much of a coward to give me useful information, and so must be the ones who hired him. What _does_ matter is that I’m sure the assassination attempt was connected to my ascension as a Lord, and that makes it imperative that we find out who is behind it. What would happen if the danger turned and struck other Lords and Ladies? The _exact same danger_? We have to figure this out and stop it now, or we risk that.”

 _There_. An insult in every sentence, or a warning, or a glimpse of knowledge. Harry inclines his head and walks to his seat with Neville just behind him.

“Brilliant, mate,” Neville murmurs.

Harry tilts his head. He doesn’t think that he’ll match what he did last Sun Chamber session in this one, but that’s at least partially because of the buzzing below them and how upset people are now.

_No one said that I couldn’t play with my prey before I killed it._

*

Harry makes sure his generic green mask is in place and that he has his sign carefully shrunk in his pocket before he heads out to join the crowd protesting the Sun Chamber.

He’s not wearing his Auror robes, of course. Although it might be fun to see the expression on Kingsley’s face if Harry got hauled in for participating in a protest, he doesn’t think it’s funny enough to risk it.

He blends into the edge of the great crowd standing in the middle of Diagon Alley. People edge past them and hurry on to do their own shopping, their heads bowed, but even more stop and gape, and Harry waves his sign up and down harder. His says, EVEN THE SUN MUST SET.

The other protesters have the same green masks, and some have glamour or illusion charms draped over their hair. Harry winks when he sees a man whose height and walk he would know everywhere. His hair is a distinctive enough ginger that he does need the spells to hide.

They meet in the middle of the crowd, and take a moment from the chanting to lean near each other. “What happened today?” Ron whispers, still waving his sign around. His says, MAYBE THE WORLD OUGHT TO REVOLVE AROUND US FOR ONCE!

“Some of them were concerned, and I think I know who sent the assassin after me,” Harry murmurs. Then he shouts some more and waves his sign, and adds, “And I created a speech that insulted all of the people who sent the assassin after me, while sounding like I’m seriously concerned for the safety of others in the Sun Chamber."

Ron laughs breathlessly and spins away from a witch who’s yelling so hard that she’s started to fall over. “What do you think their next move is going to be?”

“Don’t know for sure, but I _hope_ it’s another assassin.”

Ron starts to answer, but Harry loses his reply under the sudden noise of sharp pops. He turns his head, and sees Aurors Apparating in. They’ve carefully spaced themselves around the edges of the crowd, so they can Stun people without getting in each other’s way.

Harry grins. He’s been waiting for this, and he cocks his head as he hears the noise of still more sharp cracks behind the Aurors, and a chorus of squeaky voices starts singing the Song to House-Elf Freedom that Hermione composed a few years ago.

" _We were SLAVES, but now no more!_  
Rise and open Freedom's door!  
Come and be a good free elf!  
Grow up and RESPECT yourself!"

The Aurors spin around and stare at the advancing little creatures, their mouths open as if they don't know what to do with this spectacle. Then some of them get their wits together enough to try and Stun the house-elves.

That does no good. Elves pop in and out of existence faster than any human can follow, and half the time when they reappear, they look at the Aurors and snap their fingers, and the Aurors fall asleep. By the time the few remaining Aurors are backed into a tight clump, all of them standing in a triangle with their wands pointed at the elves, not a single one of them has been harmed, but Aurors are sprawled all over the ground.

Harry grins and saunters forwards. The elves let him pass. Harry's not sure how much they think of him as a good ally and how much they think of him as "Grangy's pet human," but it doesn't matter right now.

"Why did you come to Stun protestors who were simply waving signs and telling the truth about the Sun Chamber?" he asks the Aurors. He's genuinely curious about some of the ways of responding the Ministry might choose.

The Aurors exchange glances. Harry would cheer if some of them looked abashed, but none of them do. They just look as if they want to curse _him_ for standing awake in front of them and wearing a green mask.

Finally, one of them answers in such a supremely ungracious voice that Harry hopes they don't send him on public missions. Harry doesn't know him, so he can't be sure. "We came to make sure the rule of law and order is preserved. The Sun Chamber is important to the running of the Ministry, you know."

"It can't be _that_ important, if no one but the Lords and Ladies and their families ever heard of it until last week. Where did you learn about it?"

"I learned about it from reading the article!"

Harry bites his lip and stares up at the sky, because breaking down in a howl of mirth right now would be counterproductive. Finally he looks down again and shakes his head. "The protest is so small that it wasn't even blocking people from passing down Diagon Alley to get into the shops. Please reconsider aiming your wands at people who are only expressing their political opinions as they see fit."

A different Auror, one Harry has worked with a few times named Daisy Pilates, sneaks her wand through a gap between the two others' bodies and tries to Stun him. Harry spins away from the spell and resists the temptation to Disarm her. There are still people who see that as his signature spell, so much that it has got other people accused of being him when they use it.

"I _did_ ask you to reconsider aiming your wands at people," Harry says, a little sadly, as the house-elves surge past him and the Aurors fall asleep.

Ron comes up behind him and claps him on the back. The rest of the protesters have taken up the Song to House-Elf Freedom, which they might as well sing as anything else. Ron grins and asks Harry, "So are you going to leave them tied up and on the doorstep of the Ministry for Kingsley to find?"

"I think I am. Along with a sad note about how I tried to talk to them about aiming their wands at other people and they refused to comply."

"Let Hermione help you write it. It needs to be _really_ sad."

Harry nods. He turns and looks at the protest that's trailing across the middle of Diagon Alley, still avoided by the vast majority of people doing their shopping, but now and then a witch or wizard stops to ask what they're protesting, and gets one of the pamphlets Harry dashed off last night shoved into their hands.

"This could get big," Ron says thoughtfully, leaning against Harry's unwounded shoulder to look around. "But I don't know if it's going to be big enough to convince the Ministry to do anything about the Sun Chamber."

"I had an idea about that."

Ron cranes his neck around to stare into Harry's face. Harry waves a hand at him when he can suddenly see the interior of Ron's nostrils more throughly than anyone but Hermione needs to. "What are you doing?"

"Seeing how seriously you mean this idea. Then I know whether to send warnings to everyone in the country or just the city."

Harry grins. Ron looks even warier. "It's like this. I showed you my Pensieve memory of that absurd sun they've got as the symbol of their arrogance in the Sun Chamber?"

"Right." Ron glances around as if he assumes Harry has his own personal goons ready to jump out of hiding and hold him there.

"Well." Harry cocks an arm so no one can see and traces a circle in the air. An image of the Chamber's sun forms there, drawn from his memories. Ron shakes his head.

"Mate, I told you, all you have to do is teach other people that charm, and you'd be rich."

Harry shrugs. Honestly, spell creation, especially a spell that forces an image from someone's memories to be real, is so _simple_. It's just that most people don't apply themselves. "Whatever. Look at the sun."

Ron shades his eyes and stares at the memory.

"Arse," Harry mutters, and waves his wand in another circle. This time, the sun changes into the skull and snake of the Dark Mark.

Ron jerks away and stares at him. "Mate, what the hell?"

"The curved top of the skull looks a little like the curve of the sun if you stare at it long enough," Harry explains helpfully. "And the snake was always buried under the brightness, see."

"It looks alike if you have heatstroke. What are you _planning_?"

"To spread rumors that the sun was hastily spelled over the Dark Mark, of course. That they'll find the snake behind it if they strip away the magic." Harry blinks innocently at Ron. "And the sun symbol was chosen because it's curved at the top, just like the skull of the Dark Mark."

"Um. Why?"

"The sun is made of the kind of magic that you can't remove without destroying it altogether," Harry says, and winks.

"So you're getting them to destroy their own symbol?" Ron snorts. "That's a lot of trouble for a little result, mate."

"Not when Skeeter will be delighted to spread the rumors for me. And not when I have the other plans in progress that I do."

" _Haaaarrry_ ," Ron whines, but Harry refuses to tell him more, and instead starts marching around, waving his sign again, and singing the Song to House-Elf Freedom. After a long sigh that seems to take up most of the alley, Ron joins him.


	6. Lit Some Lighter Light

“Lord Potter!”

Harry sighs and groaned and wakes slowly, stretching and shaking his head. A glare through one squeezed-shut eyelid says that it’s three forty-five in the morning. Harry takes his wand in hand and glares at the Floo.

But it continues shouting, and now he recognizes the shouting as Honeywell’s voice. “Lord Potter! Lord Potter! I must speak with you _immediately_!” Green sparks are shooting out of the fireplace as if Honeywell intends to walk through at any second.

As sleep finally falls away from him, Harry remembers the plot he put in motion yesterday, and starts to grin. Of course, it wouldn’t do for Honeywell to see that, so he tucks his hands into his stomach and casts a spell that puts a glittering Potter coat of arms on his dressing gown over his chest. Let Honeywell believe he sleeps like that all the time.

That done, he finally opens the Floo and makes sure to sound more sleep-fogged than he really is. “Lady Honeywell? What’sit?”

“Lord Potter, Lord Potter!” Honeywell’s face appears, and she’s panting like a teenage girl who just broke up with her boyfriend, tears streaming down her face. “The most awful thing—you _must_ come through!”

“But where?” Harry scratches his head and makes sure that some more of his hair stands up than was already doing it. “Could be dangerous. Someone might be trying to kill Lords and Ladies.” He nods and yawns.

Honeywell’s head moves as if she’s actually dancing in place on her knees in front of her own hearth. “Lord Potter, _please_! No more of this nonsense! No one’s trying to assassinate us, but they _are_ trying to discredit the Sun Chamber! Come through, please, please, please!”

“Can’t be too careful,” Harry says in a sullen mutter, but he knows he’s close to overdoing it. He stands and sighs and Transfigures his dressing gown into a set of robes that are close enough to acceptable Honeywell shouldn’t groan over them. More important, they still have that golden Potter crest on them.

“Please come through, Lord Potter.”

Honeywell sounds almost desperate. Harry arranges his face in a suitably grave expression, like the way he arranged his hands, and passes through.

He comes out into a huge black room, set with slabs of gleaming dark marble that have lines of silver between them. Harry nearly pauses and draws his wand, but Honeywell is hurrying him along before he can do anything, and he finds himself stumbling into a better-lit room filled with mahogany and gilding and silver and worried Lords and Ladies.

Malfoy is there. He gives Harry a sharp stare as he walks in. Harry raises his eyebrows blandly back, and looks around. Not all the Lords and Ladies are here, but he thinks he’s looking at at least half the Sun Chamber. He doesn’t see Neville, though.

“Now that the ones most affected are here,” says Honeywell, cupping her hands around her mouth, “if I could have your attention?”

 _Most affected? Hmm._ Harry knows that the article he had Skeeter write about the Chamber’s sun covering a Dark Mark didn’t mention any Lord or Lady as in more danger than anyone else. He wonders idly if they’re here about something else.

Or if Skeeter changed the article. Harry doesn’t smile except on the inside. If she did that, she will soon be wishing she hadn’t.

“This—this horrible accusation of our sun hiding the Dark Mark,” Honeywell begins, her voice trembling a little.

 _Ah_. Harry turns and stares hard at Honeywell. No one needs to know that he’s staring out of glee, or so that he can put this moment in a Pensieve and treasure it forever with his friends.

“I have called here everyone who fought in the war, or lost family members to it.” Honeywell folds her arms and looks small and old. Harry wants to roll his eyes. Everyone she can _remember_ who fought in the war or lost family members to it, more like, or Neville would be here. “I want to know how we’re going to respond to this. They’re actually demanding we let Aurors remove the sun in our Chamber to look beneath it!”

Harry bites his tongue. It’s good he does, because that lets him hear Malfoy say in an immensely entertaining shaky voice, “What began this rumor?”

“Skeeter claims that the curved top of the sun looks like the skull on the Dark Mark!” Honeywell looks bigger, but no less old. _Ripe with luxury and ready to fall,_ Harry thinks idly. “Who started this—”

“Why not the _last_ person who spread rumors about the Sun Chamber?”

“What?”

“Your precious Lord Potter and Lord Black,” Malfoy says, and swings to stare narrow-eyed at Harry. “Where would Skeeter have got the notion but from him?”

Harry makes sure that his mouth is a little parted, and he blinks rapidly. Then he says, “I’ve never heard anything so outrageous in my _life_.”

“Why not? You inspired the last article spreading rumors about us.” Malfoy prowls towards him, his cane stabbing into the floor as if he thinks that he’s going to find a weak spot and send all of them through it, while he hovers miraculously in midair. “I want to know if it was you.”

“Of course it wasn’t me!” Harry gives him a disgusted look. “Why would it be? I barely knew anything about the Sun Chamber before I stepped in here, by _your own design_.”

“I am not the one who made the rules—”

“I mean, the design of the Sun Chamber.” Sometimes, Harry really wishes he had smarter enemies. “I never said anything about this to Skeeter.”

And that’s true. He wrote down the rumor he wanted her to spread, instructed her to keep his names and Ron’s and Hermione’s out of the paper, and sent it off as an owl. It’s the kind of line-treading truth that he can keep hidden even under Veritaserum.

And he knows they’re highly unlikely to use Veritaserum. It would be too disrespectful to a Lord, and someone who’s a Lord of multiple families, at that.

“He’s right,” says Honeywell, standing up a little more and looking as if she’d like to find a couch to collapse on. “He knew nothing about the Sun Chamber, and responded with incredulity when I told him he was Lord Potter.”

“What about Lord Black, then?” someone else calls out.

“Are you kidding me? I had no idea my godfather was a Lord. He never acted anything like one,” Harry answers before Honeywell can.

Honeywell sighs a little at him, and then rephrases it in words she doubtless feels are more delicate. “It is true that Sirius Black disdained his heritage, but we can only hope he would have come around had circumstances allowed him to claim his Lordship.”

The others all scowl at him, but they can’t doubt his word. Not when he’s not talking about someone else who’s a Lord. Harry contrives to scowl with them and check on something he thinks is true, but saw before this only from the corner of his eye.

It’s true, though. Susan is nowhere in the room.

“Did you contact Lady Bones with the news?” he asks, before Honeywell can begin the tragic speech that goes with her tragic eyes. “And what about Lord Longbottom?” Ask about them both, and no one can discern where his true interest lies. Besides, he really is curious why Neville wasn’t invited.

“Lady Bones—had some losses during the war,” Honeywell says again, with better delicacy this time. “But she did not become intimately involved in the battles.” Which Harry takes to mean that losing her parents and aunt and fighting in the Battle of Hogwarts isn’t enough to count as affected by the war. He wants to sneer. _Susan, this is the group you’re so loyal to_.

“And Lord Longbottom, Lady?”

Honeywell bites her lip and avoids his gaze for a moment. “Lord Longbottom lost _so_ much to the war that I was afraid he would act volatile, and bid us to destroy the sun right away. We must deliberate before we make such a hasty decision.”

Harry wants to howl like a werewolf. They think Neville lost a lot, and _he_ didn’t?

But it honestly doesn’t seem worth bringing up, not when they’re going to finally make a decision. And Neville can learn about Harry’s plan later. Harry leans against the wall and assumes a patiently polite expression.

“In the meantime,” Honeywell says, turning her head so that she can include everyone in the room with her gaze, “we must of course determine what we are going to do. We will _not_ destroy our symbol. But what placating story can we offer so that we calm the public?”

Suggestions begin to fly from every corner. Harry notes them down in his mind. In all honesty, he doesn’t think most of them will work. They focus on things such as “acting haughty,” “reminding them that all pure-bloods need symbols,” and “urging the Wizengamot to declare us inviolate.”

But just because they probably won’t work won’t keep the Sun Chamber from trying them. So Harry will memorize them.

Honeywell finally seems to run out of suggestions from everyone else, and turns to Harry. “Lord Potter, Lord Black, what would you say?”

Harry straightens and paints an expression of deep interest across his face. Luckily, he’s had a lot of practice at that from acting like he cares in Auror meetings. “I was wondering if it would be worth it to tell the truth to the public.”

“The truth?” Malfoy is sneering again.

“I mean, tell them the truth about the Sun Chamber, and how ancient the symbol is, and that the Dark Mark can’t possibly be hiding beneath it. Because the sun is so old.”

The other members of the Sun Chamber exchange uncertain looks, and then Lady Shafiq takes a step forwards. “That would not work. The public is already set against us. And we cannot tell them _more_ about the Sun Chamber, not when it would mean betraying our own compact of secrecy.”

Harry only nods as if that makes sense. In reality, the Sun Chamber will be hurt by this, whatever they do. If they start admitting what the sun really does and what it stands for, they’ll sound even more ridiculous than they do now. And if they refuse to address the public’s concerns, then the public will only grow louder and more riotous and more prone to believe this rumor.

“So we cannot tell the truth,” Honeywell says. “I like the idea of a resolution asking the Wizengamot to declare us inviolate.”

_So they’re going to deal the death blow to themselves._

Harry watches as more Lords and Ladies speak in favor of that stupid notion, and only shakes his head and lowers his gaze shyly when Honeywell glances at him. “I’m sorry, Lady. I’ve already made mistakes because of my youth and inexperience. I don’t want to do it again. I’m going to abstain from voting this time.”

“So the boy _can_ learn humility,” Harry hears muttered from somewhere behind him.

It might be Malfoy’s voice. Harry just keeps his eyes down. They’re not going to approve of anything he does. But then again, their approval isn’t worth winning anyway.

After some mild argument, the Sun Chamber votes for Honeywell’s resolution. Harry abstains from the vote as well, and leaves while composing a few specific letters in his mind. One of them will go to Neville.

And the other will arrive at Susan’s house. He wants her to know what happened here tonight, even if he strongly suspects it’s too late to make her change her mind about supporting these inbred “aristocrats.”

*

Harry’s in yet another boring meeting, this one about how they can’t arrest a pure-blood criminal “without knowing he’s guilty,” because apparently suspicion doesn’t exist anymore, when the building rocks.

Startled cries erupt around him. Harry whips to his feet and dances around with his wand out. He hopes that his battle-grimace hides the enormous grin that’s threatening to break out.

“What was that?” whispers an Auror next to Harry who’s barely stopped being a trainee. Harry wants to put him on his head. Honestly, who doesn’t recognize the effects of a powerful Explosion Curse when he feels one?

“An attack,” Kingsley says, and he’s on his feet, too, and his hand is gripping his wand so hard that Harry thinks he’s worried about it escaping. “It seems that the protestors have grown violent and attacked, as we feared they would.” For an instant, his glance brushes Harry’s.

Harry just charges for the door, as if he’s going into battle with the eagerness everyone loves to ascribe to him. He ignores the way Kingsley follows, pressing close behind him, as if he thinks that he can stop Harry from “betraying” the Ministry or the Sun Chamber if he stares at his back hard enough.

Harry doesn’t have the time or breath to waste telling him that there isn’t going to be a Sun Chamber left soon. If Kingsley values it so much, then he really, really should have arranged to make it less corrupt. Or grant Harry more victories.

_This is the punishment for the Ministry’s corruption. There’s nothing that can change them now._

Harry bursts out into the corridor that runs the length of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and encounters the green-masked protestors exploding desks and burning papers. Kingsley staggers next to him.

 _Poor him,_ Harry thinks without much sympathy. _He must have thought they were outside and attacking the building with powerful spells. No, they’re just close and can’t all do it well._

“How—how did they get inside?” Kingsley hisses, standing there with his wand dangling and staring wildly around. A Stunner almost hits him in the chest. Harry raises a Shield Charm for him, because he’s close and skilled and there will be questions if he doesn’t, and shakes his head a little.

“Who knows? We have to do something!” And Harry runs into the maze of green-masked protestors, just as they will _also_ expect him to do. After all, _Harry Potter_ never has a plan. It’s ridiculous to think he would now.

In reality, of course, he knows exactly how they got here. House-elves with no master and a burning desire to pop through wards are useful like that.

Protestors wave flags and wands at him and shout and hoot, and mostly fall to Harry’s careful Stunners. Harry leaps over desks and shouts back and rolls dramatically under their carelessly hurled hexes. He just has to get close enough to the most important desk, the one in the Minister’s office.

And he does. Of course one protestor runs madly at the door, and Harry engages her in an impressive duel, and they tumble into the Minister’s office and the masked woman pauses with her hand up.

“Get away from there!” Harry roars, and as he lines up his wand for what will look like an attempt to stop her and she prances around to keep eyes on her, Harry focuses on his other hand and directing wandless magic through that.

People think wandless magic takes a lot of control, and that’s why almost no wizard can do it. But Harry knows wizards who’ve done it, him and Voldemort, and neither of them was controlling their temper when they did it. Tom was riding surges of hatred and fury, controlling other children at the orphanage and using his magic to terrify his enemies. And Harry was dashing through the Dursleys’ house and blowing up his aunt and making his trunk come leaping to him.

No. It doesn’t take a lot of control, wandless magic. It takes _emotion_. Hot and burning and deep and hateful.

So, when Harry sends wandless magic at the Minister’s desk and flings all his rage after it, it explodes.

Harry ducks with a shout; he honestly didn’t expect the flames. He just thought there would be a lot of flying splinters of wood and dust, which, to be fair, there are. The woman goes shooting back against the far wall and staggers to her feet, shaking her head dazedly. Harry frowns. She can’t stay here and be caught, although for some of the other protestors, wild young wizards with _connections_ , it won’t matter.

“Hissy!” he whispers.

The house-elf that appears in front of him has a serpent on his tea towel. He thinks that he’s descended from the elf that served Salazar Slytherin, and he refuses to obey any human master who doesn’t have that blood. But he will work with a misbegotten Parselmouth, and Harry nods to the woman. “Can you take her out of here?”

Hissy examines him, and Harry forces himself to wait. Then Hissy nods, seizes the young Muggleborn witch’s arm, and Apparates her out of there an instant before Kingsley comes in.

“Harry!”

He must look worse than he realizes, Harry decides, and rubs at a trickle of blood on his temple. He gives Kingsley a small, sheepish smile. “Sorry, sir. I took kind of a blow to the head when the desk exploded.”

Kingsley stares at the desk and shakes his head slowly. “They really thought that destroying a _symbol_ of authority is enough to destroy the Ministry?”

 _No_ , Harry wants to say. _I knew destroying it was the right thing to do because the Minister keeps all the evidence of Muggleborns’ crimes and guilt right there, while of course pure-bloods’ criminal records can be held in less secure places, because they wouldn’t do anything_ really _wrong._

But he only chuckles a little and says, “Who knows whether they think anything at all, sir?”

Kingsley just nods and storms out, probably to finish taking masks off the other protestors. Harry looks around the office and sighs.

Beneath the sigh is a smile.

Some of those crimes might have records stored in other locations, but Harry is willing to bet that it would take time to find them even if so, because the Minister is a paranoid bastard.

And that means he’s taken a step further in the right direction: that of getting rid of it all.


	7. Some Hydra-Headed Wrong

“We have to catch her.” Kingsley waves his wand, and a convincing approximation of the Muggleborn witch’s face flies up onto the board he’s set up in front of the…lecture room, is the only name Harry can give it. “We know that she was with the protestors yesterday. She’s the one who blew up the Minister’s desk.”

“What does her face look like?” someone asks. Most of the Aurors in the room are hastily taking notes. Harry leans forwards and pretends to study her mask as if he’s memorizing it, and he’s eager to get out there and slay “Dark” wizards who dare to dance into the Ministry.

“We don’t know,” Kingsley mutters, glaring at the green mask on the face of his illusion.

“And what about her hair color?” That’s Dawlish, ever the proud plodder. Harry makes a face at him, and then casts a spell that fastens a small sign on the back of his cloak. It says _Please ask me what my arse looks like._ That ought to keep him busy for a good long time before he figures it out, unless someone takes pity on him and tells him it’s there.

“We don’t know,” Kingsley says. “It was tucked up under her hat.”

“The same pointed hat that almost everyone in Diagon Alley wears?” asks someone else, so dismayed that Harry bites his lip and looks up at the ceiling to keep from guffawing.

“Yes, that’s right.” Harry can hear Kingsley’s teeth grinding from where he sits.

“Then how are we supposed to find her? She could be anyone! She could be any of those dotty people in the green masks!”

Harry bites back his chuckle—some of his friends would be so indignant to hear the masks described as _green_ when they tried to make them _emerald_ —and raises his hand. Kingsley nods to him, looking relieved. He seems to know that Harry’s question isn’t going to be about what the witch looks like.

“Have we tried talking to the protestors and asking them what they want?” Harry asks.

The room is silent as everyone gapes at him. Then they exchange looks and gapes with each other. Harry shakes his head sadly. “No one did, right?”

“We can hardly ask them what they want when they’re right in the middle of destroying the Ministry,” says Kingsley stiffly.

“Maybe not right _then_ ,” Harry concedes with a nod. “I just wondered if anyone knew what their cause actually was. I read the _Daily Prophet_ the day they held the protest in Diagon Alley, but it seems none of the reporters asked them, either.”

Some of the Aurors frown, but none seem to know the answer. Harry sighs. Of course, he knows that the protestors are speaking up against the Sun Chamber, but as the mastermind behind them, he has to know that out of necessity. That no one else has even thought of speaking to a protestor is just….sad.

“They’re against the Sun Chamber, I think,” someone finally ventures.

That happens to be accurate, but Harry only nods with a serious expression on his face. “All right. But other than that? What do they want? Do we know? Do they want us to take the Sun Chamber to task or something?”

“We can’t _do_ that!” Kingsley hisses. He’s greyer than Harry’s ever seen him. “We’re not even supposed to know they exist!”

“I didn’t understand that at all,” someone else complains. Harry feels safe to sit back and watch the show. “Why _not_? If they’re doing all these wonderful things for the wizarding world, why can’t we know about them?”

“The Sun Chamber was established—”

“By a bunch of poncey pure-bloods who don’t understand what _really_ keeps the wizarding world running,” someone interrupts. Harry actually turns his head to stare at the newcomer with everyone else. He doesn’t recognize the voice, which means it’s someone he wouldn’t have expected to join their little rebellion.

It’s not. She’s an Auror with bright blonde hair and a thin smile. Harry remembers thinking that she must be related to the Malfoys, but he’s never interacted with her on a long-term basis. After a small struggle, he remembers her name is Calliope Weston.

“You don’t understand the traditions behind the Sun Chamber.” Kingsley’s voice is low and passionate.

“Well, of course not. The pure-bloods kept everyone from understanding them.” Weston swings one leg. “Do you want to tell me what’s so important about what they do for the wizarding world?”

Kingsley spends a baffled moment staring at her. Then he draws himself up and says, “I’m not a current member of the Sun Chamber, only related to one. I think you’d be better off asking the current Lord Potter.”

“And Lord Black. I remember reading about that.” Weston turns towards Harry like he’s scattered his blood in the water. “What’s so important about what you do?”

“Well, nothing that has to be kept secret,” Harry says immediately. He likes Weston’s attitude, but there’s no guarantee that he’ll actually get to invite her to participate in their rebellion. She could be the sort who doesn’t like armed resistance against the Ministry, or hates pure-bloods so much she can’t distinguish between people like the Malfoys and people like the Weasleys. “That’s why I blurted it out in the first place. I didn’t take the secrecy prohibitions seriously because there didn’t seem like there was a _reason_ to. Honestly.”

“Honestly…what?”

 _Yes, Weston might or might not be a good recruit,_ Harry thinks, and keeps up the earnest expression. “Honestly, they seemed like they were priding themselves on traditions that don’t matter that much. Being the sun around which the whole world revolves? I couldn’t see myself doing that. No matter how many titles they gave me.”

“But the Sun Chamber doesn’t have titles that relate to particular places,” Kingsley intervenes, probably because he can see the probable course of their future discussion in Weston’s hungrily sparkling smile. “They just have titles that relate to bloodlines.”

“And what’s so special about someone’s bloodline?”

“What your ancestors did.” Kingsley is looking blankly at Weston, as if he almost doesn’t understand the point of the question because he’s never heard one like it before. “You honor your ancestors by carrying on the name.”

Weston leans back and laces her fingers together. Harry conceals his chuckle. Kingsley is going to get a berating, from the look of it, and for once it doesn’t need to come from him. Harry might as well sit back and enjoy it.

“You _aren’t_ your ancestors,” Weston says. “You might be noble and honorable yourself, but in that case, people should give _you_ Orders of Merlin and talk about how you saved the wizarding world—” for an instant, her eyes dart to Harry. “—not talk about your heritage. And your children might or might not be good people. And probably _all_ the people you’re blood-descended from weren’t the same level of good. Why does one remarkable person stamp their descendants forever after as someone who needs respect? Why doesn’t it work the other way around and people acknowledge their ancestors who were wrong or irritating? It doesn’t seem to work that way, except with Muggleborns. Then _we’re_ supposed to apologize for our parents being human, day in and day out.”

 _Not related to the Malfoys, then,_ Harry concludes with some glee. He thinks he’ll try to approach her later and see if she’s interested in joining his group.

“Because—because that’s the way it’s always been.” Kingsley seems to realize even as he says it that this isn’t a great thing, and shakes his head. “I mean, we’ve had centuries of tradition—”

“That results in things like the Sun Chamber and protests against the Ministry.” Weston nods to Harry. “And mad Dark Lords that we need someone to save us from. Why _keep_ those traditions now?”

“That’s not the only thing they’ve resulted in!”

“You’re right,” Weston says in a serious voice after some consideration. “There’s also prejudice against Muggleborns. I forgot about that as a pure-blood institution.”

Harry has to hold his face grave and calm. But he resolves to himself to find a way to owl his appreciation to Weston, even if he can never let her know who he is personally. Respecting the conventions of work and the safety of his comrades doesn’t prevent an anonymous letter.

“There are _plenty_ of reasons to keep the Sun Chamber, and prevent disrespect to it.” Kingsley is puffed up like Umbridge. “If you understood the centuries of tradition, the decisions they have made—”

“But we were never supposed to know the decisions, right? Or that they existed at all.” Weston smiles at him again. “Rather strange to find respect demanded for what would have remained a secret body if not for Auror Potter’s article.”

“I do wonder,” Harry says, and makes it a nervous little murmur while he tugs at his fringe to keep it flat over his scar, “how different the Lords and Ladies would feel if _their_ particular bloodlines had never been part of the Sun Chamber. There are some who aren’t, you know. Like the Weasleys.”

“And here I thought it was all pure-bloods.” Weston picks up the cue as smoothly as if she’s always been part of his alliance, seeming to muse over it. “Why aren’t the Weasleys included?”

“Because of the public perception of them as blood traitors,” Harry hisses, leaning over to whisper, as if everyone in the room doesn’t know perfectly well what’s going on. “Because they have this reputation as not _real_ pure-bloods.” He nods, eyes wide, drawing and holding Weston’s gaze. “It’s the silliest thing. But that’s the way it is.”

Weston smiles, a little, and then the rest of the room joins in, trying to defend the Sun Chamber or trying to agree with Harry and Weston or arguing among themselves, as the case may be. Harry only turns his gaze back to Kingsley and waits as if he thinks that whatever Kingsley’s answers are will settle the matter.

Kingsley shouts, finally, turning attention back to the witch they think destroyed the Minister’s desk. Harry waits for the best moment to throw everything into confusion again.

It comes near the end, when Kingsley is making yet another passionate speech about the importance of the Minister’s desk. Harry lets his eyes widen as if he’s only just thought of something, and begins waving his hand around.

“Yes, Harry?” Kingsley sounds weary. And wary.

 _Well, he should be,_ Harry has to admit as he rearranges his face into an expression of innocent puzzlement. “I thought—well, I thought it was just that she destroyed the Minister’s desk, and she couldn’t be allowed to get away with that!” His charged voice makes a few of the other Aurors nod in respect. “But there’s something else, right?”

“What do you mean, Harry?”

 _Oh, yeah, he knows what I’m about to say. Look at his shoulders tense._ Harry bites back a malicious chuckle and blinks. “I just mean that the Minister had a lot of Muggleborn criminal records stored in his desk. Do we even have _copies_ of those other records? We’re missing a lot of information! How are we going to track Muggleborn cases?” Harry refrains from clutching his heart.

“I had no idea that cases were divided up by the blood status of the suspects,” Weston says casually.

“That’s not—that’s not the reason the Minister had those records in his desk,” Kingsley manages, glaring at Harry.

“Oh? What’s the reason, sir?”

Harry beams at Weston with his eyes wide. “The Minister likes to keep those cases close at hand, that’s all. Go through them and make sure there are no irregularities that might prevent us from getting a conviction.”

“And does he keep all the files with the records of pure-blood criminals that close at hand?”

“I don’t know that. I mean, I’m not the Minister’s confidant. I only know a few things that are the sort of things anyone can know,” Harry says eagerly. “For example—”

“That is _enough_ , Auror Potter.”

Harry pretends to flinch a little under Kingsley’s glare. Cowering would be too much of an overreaction. “All right, sir. I’m sorry. I suppose I shouldn’t repeat gossip.”

“I don’t know if it’s gossip when no one here is saying that it’s untrue.” Weston sweeps her eyes around the room, and then laughs a little. “And I still want to know why files are divided up by the blood status of the suspect. If that’s the right way to do it, then I’ve been doing it wrong in my filing all this time.”

Kingsley looks as if he’s about to start shouting in a second. He massages his forehead and finally says, in a voice as grave as Harry remembers from some of his speeches when he was Acting Minister, “It is true that a great many records were stored in the Minister’s desk, and that their loss may impede our ability to go to trial for the crimes. And it is true that a great many of those records concerned Muggleborn criminals. But not _all_ of them.”

“How many would you say, sir? Are any of my cases likely to be affected? I know I have a few cases on the go with Muggleborn criminals. I can see if any of the copies I’ve made would help with bringing them to trial.”

Kingsley looks as if he’ll start tearing his hair any second. Harry sits back and looks anxious and helpful.

He doesn’t know how long he can continue to hamstring the other Aurors without being caught, but as long as he can, he’ll do it.

*

“But _why_ are you doing this, Harry? I mean, you hate the Sun Chamber, fine. But what about the other things? Don’t you want to see _any_ criminals brought to trial, even if they’re Muggleborn?”

Harry smiles tolerantly at Rolf Scamander. He’s not very close with the man, but he’s Luna’s husband, and that makes him part of the inner circle that understands Harry’s real nature and way of handling things. And Harry knows he’ll never betray them. He loves Luna too much for that, and Luna is too loyal to Ron and Hermione and the rest of them.

Harry leans back in his chair, thinking about the best, most convincing answer. He’s had dinner with Luna and Rolf this week, something he didn’t manage to do last week what with sowing chaos, and now they’re serving wine made from what Luna serenely calls “Orlack milk.” Harry knows better than to ask.

“Harry would rather see a thousand criminals go free than one innocent person be punished.”

As always, Luna can come out with some startling, well-phrased insights. Harry toasts her with his glass. “Exactly, Luna. And anyway, I have absolutely no faith in the judicial process anymore. The Minister divides files up by blood status. The Wizengamot listens to the Sun Chamber when they make judgments. Who knows how many innocent people were convicted and I never knew it? And that doesn’t count the ones where I _knew_ and couldn’t fight it.”

“But why not fight to reform it?”

“Because,” Harry says bluntly, “I don’t give a fuck about preserving the system anymore.”

In the silence that follows his declaration, Rolf pales. Luna reaches out and pats his hand. She’s knitting, the way she almost always is these days. She seems to make long, twisted plaits of red and blue yarn that never go anywhere, but like Harry can say that this life up until this point was any more productive.

“Harry won’t just destroy everything,” she says, and twists a thread of red carefully around the blue. “He wouldn’t do something like that. He’ll find a way to talk about the destruction and bring in other people who have different ideas.”

“He doesn’t sound like it right now,” Rolf replies, staring very hard at Harry. “I don’t see how this is a good thing for _anyone_ , even the Muggleborns you want to protect.”

Harry sighs a little. At least he’s full of good food and good wine. That makes him more patient than he might otherwise be. “Look. Has anyone ever walked up to you and told you that you shouldn’t do the work you’re doing? Traveling around the world and studying animals?”

Rolf blinks. “No.”

“Have they ever turned their backs on you when you try to enter a meeting and pretend that you’re not there for the rest of it?”

“No. What does this have to do with—”

“If you went in front of the Wizengamot,” Harry persists, leaning forwards, “you would expect a fair trial. And you wouldn’t have any doubt that you’d receive one, or that you had the _right_ to receive one.”

“Of course not!”

“None of that happens when you’re Muggleborn,” Harry says, and relaxes and leans back to pick up his glass again. “Or even half-Muggleborn. Everything but the trial was taken from my own experience. I’ve had people tell me I shouldn’t be an Auror, ignore me in meetings, turn their backs on me and walk away when I try to engage them in conversations we _have_ to have as Aurors, and refuse to partner or share information with me. And every time, it was made clear it was because of my mother’s blood. Your family is famous. You haven’t had that problem. Meanwhile, I have fame of my own and it _still_ isn’t enough to counter the blood prejudice all the time. You see the problem?”

Rolf’s throat works. Then he says, “But surely if we talked to some more people—”

“I’ve talked. And talked. And talked until my head throbs and my throat is hoarse. Nothing stops them.” Harry shrugs and takes one more sip of his wine. “I can’t tell you how many chances they’ve had, down all these years, to see that their way isn’t working. They won’t take the one that does. So we force them.”

Rolf goes on staring at Harry as if his head is about to fall off his neck like Nick’s in Gryffindor Tower. It’s Luna who interrupts, clasping her husband’s hands and sending a small smile at Harry.

“There are winning sides and losing sides, and it’s time the pure-bloods were on the losing side,” she says. She has a graceful shrug. “That’s all.”

Rolf stares at her in turn, then laughs shakily. Harry toasts them both and downs his glass.

 _If more people looked at the world the way Luna does,_ he thinks as he carefully Floos home, _it would be a much happier place._


	8. Had My Lips Been Smitten

“Harry! You’re looking well, dear.”

Harry bends forwards with a smile and lets Molly hug him. No matter how distant he grows from some of the goals that he knows she supports, no matter that he broke up with her daughter, he knows she’ll always consider him part of the family.

“Thank you,” he says, and glances up and down at her red hair, her warm eyes, her flour-dusted hands. “And you. You look more and more like the perfect mum every year.”

Molly chuckles and swats his arm, making some of the flour fly into the air. “If you’re going to come in and at least _pretend_ to be serious, then you can have some of the biscuits that I’m making.”

“How could I resist?” Harry asks, and follows her.

The Burrow has grown a bit, since there are so often grandchildren visiting—Bill and Fleur’s three, Percy’s two daughters, George and Angelina’s children, and now a grave little Rose and a toddling Hugo. But the kitchen still feels too small and warm and crowded, exactly the way Harry likes it. He bends down and picks up Hugo, spinning him around so that he shrieks in delight.

“I’m going to breathe fire at you,” he hisses to Hugo, and takes out his wand and casts a small charm that marks sparks leap between his teeth. “RARRRR!”

Hugo shrieks again, Rose looks up from her book with a slightly annoyed expression, and Lucy, Little Molly, Fred, and Roxane promptly jump on him, demanding their turn to have “Uncle Harry” breathe at them. Harry obliges all of them, although he has to keep casting the charm on his breath as it wears out. Louis looks as if he’d like to join in, but Dominique and Victoire obviously consider themselves too old, and Louis stays beside them. Harry grins at him and conjures a small ball of flame that Louis can try to juggle with his own magic. He isn’t Hogwarts age yet and is having a great deal of fun in a few seconds.

“Hello, Harry.”

Harry glances up, blinking. The children were making enough noise that he didn’t hear Ginny coming. She stands in the entrance that leads to the drawing room, frowning at him a little. Harry inclines his head to her. “How are you, Gin?”

Her lips thin. Harry doesn’t understand that. They fought enough when they were together, at least at the end, that it was a relief to break up and _stop_ fighting. But sometimes he gets the impression that she wants him to yell at her. “Fine. Simon is in the drawing room.”

“Oh, okay. Do you want me to come meet him or what?”

“You’ve met him before.”

“Not for very long, though.” Harry pauses, then rolls his eyes. Honestly, with their breakup, he considers Ginny like an annoying little sister. “You have to tell me outright, Gin. Do you want me to come _spend time with him_ , or would you prefer that I go outside?”

Ginny folds her arms so tightly that she looks like she’s going to break her shoulders. “Come and spend time with him,” she grits out, and then she turns and vanishes back into the other room as if it truly makes no difference to her.

Harry sighs, puts Hugo down, and kisses his forehead. “Uncle Harry has to go play dragon with the adults now,” he says, and sees a small grin on Rose’s face. He wouldn’t be surprised if Hermione’s daughter is smart enough to understand all the tension that the other children don’t even notice.

Walking into the other room isn’t like walking into a battlefield. Maybe Ginny would be more comfortable if it was tenser for him, but Harry is really and truly over the small fling they had. He shrugs in response to her glare, and turns to Simon Morreth—as his name apparently is—with a polite smile.

Simon is a tall man with dark hair and blue eyes. He looks familiar, slightly, but then, Harry has met him before. He shakes Harry’s hand and looks down at his hand for a second.

“You _are_ Lord Potter and Lord Black.”

Harry doesn’t take his wand out, but it’s an effort. _Great, a Lordship fan._ “I am,” he says, as neutrally as he can. “But it’s only because my family members died or became fugitives before they reached thirty. I’d give a lot to have them back.”

Simon doesn’t seem to notice this cue or the way that Ginny is making sharp, cutting motions at him with her hand. He grins at Harry. “But it’s so _brilliant_ , isn’t it, being a Lord? One of the people who control the fate of magical Britain! And you’re a double Lord to boot?”

 _Really?_ Harry would say if he cared more, to Ginny. _This is what you replace me with?_

But he doesn’t. He _very carefully_ doesn’t. He simply nods to Simon and says, “It’s been interesting so far. But I find politics so boring. An Auror deals with more of them in day-to-day life than I ever knew when I started training as one, you know. Why don’t you tell me more about what you do? Something to do with brooms, right?” He honestly doesn’t remember, but it ought to—

“But I think being a Lord is _much_ more interesting. Let’s talk about that!”

“Maybe not, Simon,” Ginny says, her eyes darting back and forth between Harry’s fixed smile and Simon’s open, cheerful face. “We could talk about how we met. I don’t think Harry’s heard that yet.”

“No, I haven’t,” Harry agrees, bright as new Knuts. “Was it at a meeting for people who are neutral on the current regime?”

Simon laughs. “Neutral! I’m not _neutral_!” Meanwhile, Ginny looks like she wants to slap them both.

“It was actually in Diagon Alley, at—”

“There’s no Lord Morreth, but there could have been,” Simon goes on, leaning forwards. “I mean, we always thought my mum’s mum slept with a Lord. But she would never tell us who it was, and Mum looked a lot like her dad, so I reckon not. But there _could_ have been. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

“All _sorts_ of things,” Harry says, gaze locked on Simon’s face.

Ginny hurries on, looking up at the ceiling as if she’s actually hoping it will cave in and prevent them from having to have this conversation. “It was at Madam Malkin’s in Diagon Alley. I’d gone in to look for a new robe, and Simon was there. He actually argued with Madam Malkin over the color of the robes I’d chosen, imagine. He said they would make me look too washed-out. She would have sold them to me, but my dear Simon was watching, and he had a _care_ for my complexion.” She reaches back and squeezes his hand. Simon gives her a look of soft, beaming adoration.

Harry knows at least part of that little story is a dig at him. He never cared about what clothes Ginny wore when they were dating, and more than once he failed to notice a new set of robes or a new haircut or something similar. But the blow isn’t going to land. He smiles back at them, the kind of smile he’s had a lot of practice giving in the Ministry.

“I’m so happy for you both.”

Ginny’s eyes narrow a little, but Simon just picks up her hand and kisses it. “I’m so lucky in my Gin-Gin,” he murmurs, never looking away from her.

Molly comes into the room then, which is a good thing, since Harry doubts throwing up all over Simon would improve the atmosphere. “Harry, dear, if you could help me get the soup served? The bowl is so big that I’m afraid I’m going to spill it!”

Harry immediately stands up, nods to Ginny and Simon, and walks into the kitchen. Molly grabs his hand and squeezes it. “I’m sorry that you had to be subjected to that,” she says, and wrestles the bowl of soup to the table all by herself, although Harry does at least flick his wand to line up the bowls conveniently. “I know you and Ginny have a bit of a strained relationship.”

“It’s not because I wish I was dating her, though,” Harry says, watching as the soup pours into the bowls with a steaming smell of carrots and onions and beef and other things that make his mouth water. “It’s for the best that we broke up.”

Molly pats him on the back with a soft, disbelieving look. “I do appreciate both of you being willing to keep the peace,” she says, and bustles away.

Harry smiles after her. It’s just as well that she doesn’t know the truth of how he and Ginny broke up. He doesn’t feel bitter, but he knows Molly would after hearing his words.

 _But Simon’s the kind of man Ginny needs,_ Harry tells himself, as Molly hands him cutlery to lay out and shoos the children out of the kitchen. _Which is only more proof that we never would have worked._

*

Harry has barely Apparated to his front doorstep when he feels his eyebrows rise. There’s a heavy scent all over the stoop, as if someone has let a Kneazle spray there. Well, he supposes it’s _slightly_ sweeter than a Kneazle when you concentrate.

 _But certainly as thick as one,_ Harry thinks, and casts a spell that makes his walls transparent, allowing him to see inside.

There’s a young blonde witch sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, as still as someone caught in the middle of one of Hermione’s house-elf rants, her fingers folded properly in her lap. Her face is so pale and devoid of emotion that Harry wonders for a second if she can really be there for what he thinks she’s there for.

But the heavy scent hits him in the face again, and Harry snorts. Yes, she’s there to seduce him. That’s perfume based on Amortentia.

_Looks like Malfoy and the rest are attempting to disgrace me, since they couldn’t kill me._

Harry smiles even though he can feel rage bubbling up within him. There are very few people who have either the raw strength to break through his wards or the magical signature key to walk through them. Since he doesn’t feel bits and pieces of broken spellwork trembling in the air, this was someone he trusted.

He will be having a _talk_ with certain people, he thinks as he opens the door.

The witch immediately starts to her feet on seeing him, and stares for a second. Her eyes are a pale, watery blue. Harry lets the door fall shut behind him and stands there looking at her without saying anything.

The woman gulps. For a second, Harry thinks she’ll snatch up the cloak that’s draped over the back of the couch and leave.

But she doesn’t. Malfoy and the others must be paying her a lot, because she clenches her hands in the edges of her robes and spreads them out around her like a puddle of skirts as she curtsies. “My Lord Potter,” she says in a throaty voice. She rises back to her feet and gives him the sort of look Harry learned long ago to be immune to, the one that says he’s impressive to her. Harry knows he isn’t impressive to anyone except fools. The ones who should know better overlook why he’s dangerous, and the fools admire him for defeating Voldemort. “I have heard of your loneliness and come to soothe it.”

“Have you?” Harry moves across the room to the tall, glass-fronted cabinet where he keeps his drinks. She turns to face him, and takes a deep breath for obvious reasons. Harry can see the slight twinkle of glamour charms around her chest, and wants to snort, but that would break his façade. “I can’t imagine where you would have heard it. It’s not the sort of thing even the _Daily Prophet_ gossips about now.”

That’s mainly because, when Skeeter moved to covering political news, another reporter got assigned to monitor his love life. Harry wasted no time in threatening him. He had to carve a permanent hole in the man’s hand with a spell before he got the message, but in the end, he yielded and the _Prophet_ really hasn’t printed stories about Harry’s romances since.

“I mean—I know that you must have been lonely since Ginny Weasley left.” The witch shifts her weight and watches him. “The ungrateful trollop,” she hazards.

“Now, now,” Harry says, shaking his head. “The Howlers I received after she left me called her much more creative insults.”

The woman stares at him, obviously trying to gauge his mood. It’s too bad that she isn’t sensitive to magic. She probably would have run out the door by now.

But Harry doesn’t mind that she hasn’t. He doesn’t know yet who let her in. For now, his magic is rising and wreathing around the room, creating small sparks that can easily be mistaken for sparks of light from the lamps and the like echoed in the bright glass fronts of the cabinets and the facets of the chandelier. By the time she notices it, it’ll be too late.

In the absence of his real target, she’ll do nicely.

“I—of course I won’t insult your past lovers if you don’t want me to.” The witch finally decides that’s the correct thing to say, and casts down her eyes with a modest little pout. “I just thought you might want to know that I despise the woman who was so unwise as to abandon you.”

“It’s been years.” Harry takes out a bottle of Firewhisky he doesn’t intend to drink. “If I can get over it in that time, so should you.”

“Of course.” The witch flinches a little, and then stands back up and tries to draw Harry’s attention to her chest again. “Do you prefer Lord Black or Lord Potter as your title, my lord?”

“In bed? Neither.”

The woman smiles. “Of course. Please let me introduce myself. I am Isabella Carzel.”

Harry recognizes the name. He’s hauled more than a few wizards and witches with that name in front of the Wizengamot. And watched them walk. The Carzel family is related to the Goyle family.

Now he knows _why_ they walked. And his rage soars up until he knows his magic is dancing and sparking around his hair. Why did they send a pure-blood to seduce him? Are they _stupid_?

No, he realizes a second later. It’s probably because they don’t know anyone _but_ pure-bloods. They wouldn’t have any Muggleborn or half-blood contacts.

Almost amused, Harry gestures with the bottle. Carzel walks towards him, her eyes cast down towards the floor again. Harry wants to shake his head. They _really_ didn’t study him at all, if they think that timid women appeal to him.

She’s almost to him when Harry swings the Firewhisky bottle and shatters it on the corner of the cabinet.

Carzel flinches back from him and nearly draws her wand, but Harry’s magic has already reached out and pinned her hand to her side. In the meantime, the Firewhisky spreads out and ignites before it can fall to the floor, caught by Harry’s raging power. In seconds, a net of flames spreads out and surrounds Carzel, dancing with menacing heat at her throat and wrists and lips.

Carzel stands there, breathing so fast that Harry thinks she might burn her own vocal cords. He calls the flames back a little and takes a step towards her.

The fire promptly turns to flank him as he moves. Carzel sways, on the edge of fainting. Harry smiles. This is a trick he’s perfected when he faces criminals in the field, although there it’s not usually Firewhisky that carries the flames.

They never knew he was like this. Or they wouldn’t have sent her.

“I know exactly what you’re here for,” Harry says softly. “And you’re going to give me the names of the people who hired you.”

“H-hired me? My lord—”

Harry moves his fingers a little. The flame whips out and catches her eyelashes. Carzel screams as she burns—

For one second. Then Harry calls the fire back before it can burn her eyes. Carzel stands there, panting and wide-eyed.

The lesson isn’t lost on her. Harry is _perfectly_ in control of his magic. Far more than she, or anyone who would have hired her, thought she was.

That means that, if she gets hurt, it will be _deliberately_.

“Their names,” Harry says. His voice echoes with the thunder of his awakened power, and Carzel shudders and would probably try to fall back a step if it wasn’t for the net of flame surrounding her. “You can start with the easy ones.”

Carzel lowers her head and begins to whisper. “Lord Malfoy. Lady Shafiq. Heir Malfoy. Heiress Parkinson…”

On the list goes, and on. Harry listens, smiling, knowing his crystalline memory when it comes to enemies will preserve it all.

And his flame tightens, and does make Carzel faint at the last.

That’s okay. Harry has plans for her. He calls Kreacher and lets him take the witch, minus her wand, to a secure cellar in Grimmauld Place.

This time, he’ll bring a witness with him.


	9. That But Made Them Bleed

Harry yanks his head out of the Pensieve when a shake of his hair and a gasp. Then he sits back and sighs long and loudly enough that he thinks some of the dust in this ancient room where he keeps his Pensieve—one of the cellars of Grimmauld Place—will whirl around in miniature cyclones.

He should have known, really. But he didn’t _want_ to think that would happen. He wanted to think the past was the past and they could all go their separate ways and no one would have any bitterness about it.

Even though he thinks it was carelessness and not spite that made her do this.

Harry sighs again, bottles the memories that he removed from the head of the woman called Isabella Carzel, and then sets the bottle on a shelf next to him. A pop behind him makes him wheel around, but it’s only Kreacher. Unlike the rest of the house-elves Hermione works with, Kreacher has insisted on retaining an elf’s traditional service place.

Harry doesn’t mind. Considering how much Kreacher orders _him_ around, he doesn’t think their relationship is that of master and servant.

“Harry Potter Auror has not been resting.”

“No. I came back and someone was in my home, Kreacher. I had to discover who let her through the wards.”

“Harry Potter Auror has been watching memories for hours. Harry Potter Auror will eat a full meal and go to bed.”

Harry lifts his hands in mock surrender and follows Kreacher up the stairs. There are plates of scrambled eggs, treacle tart, corned beef sandwiches like the ones Molly makes, and frothy chocolate custard waiting—all his favorites. Harry sits down and digs in with relish, while Kreacher watches to be sure he eats every bite.

The plates all vanish the second he’s done, and Kreacher points sternly up the stairs. Harry nods. He doesn’t spend that much time in Grimmauld Place anymore. The memories of Sirius usually depress him, and it’s too _grand_ for him. It makes his skin prickle and itch.

But right now, he’s too tired to Apparate, and at least he knows the wards of Grimmauld Place have never been compromised, because he’s never invited anyone in but Ron and Hermione. He slogs up the stairs and goes to bed in Regulus’s room. The sheets are clean as always.

Harry closes his eyes and at least manages to sleep like a soldier, without a thought of the unpleasant confrontation that awaits him tomorrow.

*

“You asked for a private meeting, Lord Potter?”

Harry nods and leans forwards. “Yes, Lady Honeywell,” he whispers hoarsely. “There are—there are people who aren’t happy to see me sitting in the Sun Chamber, as you know.”

Honeywell reacts instinctively to his words, and raises some anti-eavesdropping spells around the room that even Harry has to admit are impressive. “The commoners? Ignore the rabble, Lord Potter. Of course it would be better if they still did not know of the Sun Chamber’s existence, but it not your fault that your lack of experience—”

“No. These are other Lords and Ladies.”

Honeywell immediately draws herself up. Harry has to admit that she looks almost intimidating. Such a pity that it’s not enough to earn his respect. “That is a serious accusation, Lord Potter.”

“I know that,” Harry says solemnly, and takes the Pensieve out of his cloak, along with the vial of liquid memories from Isabella Carzel. Everything except the most damning memory, of course, the one that revealed to him how Carzel got through his wards. “But I arrived home last night to find a woman waiting to seduce me. And she provided me with the names of her employers after I rejected her advances.”

Honeywell looks as if she’s about to faint. “No one—a Lord or Lady’s bed is _sacred_.”

Harry blinks. That’s not something he remembers reading in the books she lent him. Luckily, Honeywell goes on rambling and explains herself as she clutches at her cane. “The mere _possibility_ that you might sire illegitimate heirs—”

 _Ah. Of course._ Harry inclines his head. “Then you can understand my outrage. Will you view the memories, Lady Honeywell?”

“I will.” Her response is instant, and she doesn’t appear at all deterred when Harry wants to hold himself back from seeing the memories again. In truth, he thinks he’ll burst out laughing if he sees Lucius Malfoy and the rest standing around in black cloaks like the Death Eaters some of them were. They used enchantments to mask their voices, too, but Carzel demanded their names, so that was useless.

When Honeywell comes back from the memories, she’s clearly shaking. Harry thinks it’s fear. He wonders for a moment if he should have approached someone else. It’s true that she’s his closest ally in the Sun Chamber other than Neville, but she’s older and fragile and might take this kind of shock as a blow that stops her in her tracks.

But then Honeywell turns around, and Harry realizes the tremor in her hands was one of rage, not of fear at all.

“They are traitors to the cause of all true Lords and Ladies,” Honeywell says, in a clipped tone. “They should remember that you are the Lord of _two_ Lines, and that puts you above all but the most ancient of families.”

Harry nods. It’s stupid rhetoric, but it’s stupid rhetoric he needs on his side at the second, so he’ll take it. “You can suggest a way to deal with them?”

“Yes, I can.” Honeywell grins at him, and Harry is surprised by how bloodthirsty it is. “And it’s much less bloody than a duel. We cannot afford to have our numbers reduced further after losing Lord Selwyn. For one thing, you have no heir to either the Potter or the Black lines, Lord Potter, and I have seen enough families lost.”

Harry tilts his head. He supposes that people can be committed to even corrupt and stupid principles. Honeywell sounds like she is. “What’s that way, Lady?”

“We’ll need to call a special meeting in the Sun Chamber. And make sure that everyone brings their stoles with them.”

*

“I have called you here today to discuss the news of a very grave betrayal against a member of our illustrious Sun Chamber.”

The Lords and Ladies start and murmur. Harry sits in the seat next to Neville with his eyes cast down and his hands folded. Even though this sudden meeting upset his plans—which were to confront the people who gave Carzel access to his wards—he has to fight to keep his shoulders still and the laughter from bubbling up inside.

This is _fantastic_.

“We all know the importance of keeping our bloodlines clean,” Honeywell says, stumping back and forth in front of the Sun Chamber like an animated tree. “And yet, someone _dared_ to buy a seductress to set on our beloved Lord Potter and Lord Black!”

Harry doesn’t imagine the shudder that travels through the Malfoys and the other people Carzel named this time. It seems they’re more afraid of Honeywell than he knew.

Then again, he _did_ know they were wary of attracting attention, or they would simply have moved against Harry openly, assured of protection by their names and blood. It seems they have a teaspoon more of sense than Harry thought.

It’s a little disappointing. But not as much as it is entertaining.

“Beloved is perhaps an overstatement,” Draco Malfoy finally says, speaking up even though Harry’s read rules that say an Heir is supposed to stay quiet in the Sun Chamber unless spoken to or unless they’re filling in for an absent parent. Given Lucius’s current attempt to murder his son with his eyes, that rule is true. “You can’t forget that we stood on opposite sides of a war not long ago, Lady Honeywell.”

Honeywell actually takes the stairs until she’s standing right next to Draco’s seat. He cowers. Harry wants to shake his head. Turning thirty hasn’t changed him. But then, neither did surviving the war and seeing what an idiot he’d been to take the Dark Mark. Harry probably ought to give up on changes coming from that direction.

“And _you_ should not forget that blood matters in here, not Dark and Light affiliations!” Honeywell thunders, waving her cane. Harry leans forwards, but she manipulates it carefully so the cane doesn’t strike Draco. Harry leans back with a little sigh of disappointment. “Lord Potter and Lord Black has the proper blood! He is the chosen heir! You are not a Lord yet, Heir Malfoy! _Remember your place._ ”

Draco shrinks in his seat. He also finally seems to notice his father’s glare, and refrains from glaring himself when his eyes meet Harry’s. He looks down and nods. Honeywell nods roughly back and returns to the floor.

“You have challenged a fellow Lord on ground that was not yours to fight. You have tried to corrupt his bloodline.” Honeywell stands still after she gets back to floor level, and her glance is scathing as it passes back and forth between the Lords and Ladies. “I call on the magic of the Sun Chamber to punish those who have acted dishonorably by a fellow Lord.”

Harry blinks as he watches Lucius Malfoy reach up and nearly tear the golden stole from his shoulders. Then he lowers his hand and sits with his eyes stretched wide and his lip imprisoned between his teeth. Harry turns to Neville.

“What, is this the one part of those books you didn’t read?” Neville is grinning viciously, something Harry hasn’t seen since the war and has missed. “The stoles heat up to punish them. The more heat, the worse the crime.”

“Too bad it can’t punish them for the _real_ crimes they’ve committed,” Harry mutters as he watches a few other people—all names Carzel gave him—claw at their necks. Draco doesn’t, since he doesn’t wear the stole, but he does look pale enough to leave Harry in no doubt that he’ll get his own punishment later.

“Yeah, but the heat of the sun only punishes them for breaking the rules of the Chamber.” Neville shrugs. “‘Those who wear the sun around their necks—’”

“‘Should remember that it can burn all of them.’” Honeywell’s eyes are flashing as she looks around the room. “Yes, thank you, Lord Longbottom. There are some here who _need to be reminded of that._ ” She thumps her cane again, and then turns to Atlas Parkinson, who is shuddering as if he can barely remember not to tear at his own skin. “Does wearing a brand of shame teach you that, Lord Parkinson?”

For a second, Harry thinks Atlas isn’t going to answer. But then he abruptly tears the stole from his neck and flings it to the floor. “I challenge Lord Potter and Lord Black to a duel!” he shouts.

Harry narrows his eyes. Honeywell never said—

“You cannot _do_ that, my Lord,” Honeywell says, moving a step forwards. “You are branded for a crime against a fellow Lord. You have lost the right to honorably duel him until you make amends.”

“He is my enemy and my Heiress’s enemy!” Atlas shouts. Harry thinks he can actually see steam rising from the back of his neck. “I have the bloody right to challenge him whenever I bloody well please!”

“And now you are dangerously near conduct unbecoming of a Lord.” Honeywell collects eyes as she looks around the room again. “I wonder how many will vote to censure you for that?”

Harry can see the trembling eagerness even before the hands rise, and some of them are the hands of those also punished by the stoles. He wants to snort. Of course. They’ll gladly use Atlas Parkinson as their scapegoat and pretend their resentment against Harry doesn’t exist.

“I thought so.” Honeywell’s voice is smug. She faces Atlas and shakes her head. “Take your punishment like a man, _Lord_ Parkinson, if you cannot take it as a noble.”

Atlas sits down and picks up the stole. From the wince he gives, it’s still burning. He tucks it over the back of his branded neck, and Harry hears the way he hisses.

 _Good._ Harry turns his head a little to the side, and sees Pansy Parkinson staring at him with undisguised dislike. Harry smiles at her. She immediately goes red, but stays quiet. Draco’s outburst seems to have taught her something.

“We have always obeyed the unity of blood in the Sun Chamber,” says Honeywell sternly, looking from face to face and shaking her head a little. Harry can’t help but compare her to Professor McGonagall in his head. “We have always said that bloodlines are respected, and we have _rules_ to deal with Lords and Ladies that you cannot stand. My fellow nobles, breaking those rules is useless. You will be found out in the end.”

 _Especially when they have no idea who they’re dealing with,_ Harry thinks idly. He’s managed to hide the truth from the people he works with in the Ministry for a dozen years. Making the Lords and Ladies of the Sun Chamber, who are stupid enough to think that bloodlines mean something, underestimate him is no game at all.

“Ready?”

Harry nearly starts out of his seat, and then realizes it’s Neville speaking. He looks at his friend with a faint smile. Of course. Neville wanted to bring one of their plans to life, and Harry agrees it’s only sensible. That will keep too many people from looking at him as the sole source of rebellion in the Sun Chamber.

Besides, why should Harry have all the fun by himself?

“Ready to support you,” he whispers, and Neville stands with a dramatic motion of his robes and stole just as the moment comes for Honeywell to open her mouth again. She’s probably going to announce that the Lords and Ladies have paid enough of a price and all is forgiven now.

Harry feels more pity for her than he did before. She’s not stupid, but her unwavering faith in those rules is.

“I wanted the Sun Chamber’s advice on something,” says Neville, his eyes cast down. He looks as bashful and shy as he used to be in Gryffindor. Harry wants _so badly_ to laugh, but he keeps his face calm and attentive, as if he has no idea what Neville is going to say. “I am only a young Lord, and my parents are incapacitated, and it’s not easy for me to make my own decisions. And now I have so much riding on it! I’d like to know what you would say.”

“Of course we will give you any advice we can,” says Honeywell, and shows Neville a smile that is almost motherly.

“Thank you.” Neville plays with a thread at the corner of his sleeve, then looks up and takes a deep breath. “It has to do with the protestors that have been angry about the existence of the Sun Chamber, and what you think we ought to do about them…”

Harry leans back and listens as Neville weaves a tale of how frightened he is, and how he wishes for bodyguards, and how he would like some of the members of the Sun Chamber to teach him how to ward his home. It’s a more convoluted path towards embarrassing them than Harry would have taken, but this is Neville’s part of the resistance: meeker and more cunning than Harry’s.

Thinking of wards on his home makes Harry think of the confrontation yet to come. He sighs and forces himself to listen to Neville’s words instead, so he can back him up later. _That_ will be a pure pleasure.

The confrontation, not so much.

*

“Harry! You scared the life out of me.” Ginny places a hand over her heart. Her broom has already fallen with a loud clatter on the floor.

Harry stands with his head cocked, listening. Yes, there is someone else moving in Ginny’s flat, and he doubts she would have a friend over right now. Her robe is still twitched a little to the side as if someone has recently reached beneath it. He turns and meets her eyes. “Ginny, I need to talk to you and Simon.”

Ginny scowls at him. “You gave up any claim to date me, Harry.”

“This isn’t about that.”

Ginny finally seems to realize that he isn’t smiling. She gives him an uneasy look. “Harry, what—”

“Lord Potter!” Simon sweeps out of the next room, waving a hand around as if he’s welcoming Harry to a theater. “I’m so glad to see you!”

He doesn’t look as glad as when Harry has his wand out a minute later, pointing at him. In fact, he makes an entertaining _erp_ noise and almost stumbles over his feet trying to back away. Harry reckons that Ginny told him the truth about Harry’s magical prowess, at least, which isn’t something lots of people in the Ministry know.

“It was probably sentiment that made me keep Ginny tied into the wards,” Harry says, not looking away from Simon’s face. “It was _certainly_ sentiment that made her let the secret slip to _you_ , Morreth. But I want to know what made you tell the other Lords and Ladies in the Sun Chamber.” He slinks a step closer. “The faster you talk, the less I’ll hurt you. Now. Start.”


	10. Walked With the Angels

“How do you know it was me?”

Harry lifts his eyebrows. “It’s interesting how many people condemn themselves right out of their own mouths.” Simon still looks confused, so Harry condescends to explain. “You would have spluttered and asked other questions first, such as what all this was about. Instead, you leap right to denying your guilt.”

“You don’t _have_ any proof he was guilty!” Ginny shoves forwards and tries to get in between them. Harry simply takes a dancing step to the side. He isn’t going to let anyone interfere with him pointing his wand at Simon. “Harry, put that down _now_!”

Harry only glances at her, but it blows the fire in Ginny to ash. She stumbles back with her eyes so wide they look like they hurt.

“Don’t,” Harry says mildly, “scold me.” Then he turns back to Simon. “I’m still waiting to hear why you gave the key to my wards to Parkinson. Or Malfoy. Or I can name one of the others if you want, but they seemed to be the ringleaders.”

Simon stands very straight and stares him in the eye. Harry raises a slow brow. He thought confronting the man this way would cure at least part of his stupidity, but it doesn’t seem to be working out like that.

“Because,” Simon says, and his voice is low and intense, “they asked me.”

 _Yes, it isn’t working out._ Harry surveys Simon. “What an interesting statement. Why don’t you explain it?”

“They’re _Lords and Ladies_!” Simon’s face is clouded with awe. He’s waving his hands around the way he did when he first met Harry. “Of _course_ I’m going to tell them whatever they need to know! Why did you think I wouldn’t?”

Harry doesn’t pinch the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t sigh. He just wants to. “Did it occur to you that if they wanted private information like the key to the wards of my house, they probably wanted it for a terrible purpose? Or else that they would have _asked me_ if they had a legitimate one?”

“They’re _Lords and Ladies_!”

“Saying it twice doesn’t make your head sound any less empty.”

“Harry…” Ginny has edged towards him and looks almost like she wants to make a grab for his wand. Harry looks at her again, and freezes her in place. The fire he used on Carzel the other night would be no surprise to her, even though she hasn’t actually seen him use it in person.

“They’re our rulers,” Simon says. His voice is hushed. His face still has that strange clouded awe on it. At least he’s stopped waving his bloody hands around. “Of course I’m going to give them what they want. They’re the only ones who would know what to do with it.”

“I never knew that I turned your orientation into one focused on idiots,” Harry tells Ginny.

She flushes so badly that he knows he’s going to pay for that. The thing is, that’s not right now. Harry turns back to Simon. “Blood means nothing. _Pure_ blood means nothing. Did it ever occur to you that, if they abided by their own principles, I couldn’t be part of their little Sun Chamber since my mum was a Muggleborn?”

Simon blinks. “But it’s still blood.”

 _No driving through that brick wall, noted,_ Harry decides dryly. “And they made an exception for me,” he says. “And they make exceptions for people who aren’t technically members of the families that have Lords and Ladies in the Sun Chamber, only distantly related to them.” It’s an effort, but he manages “Lords and Ladies” without sneering. “They manipulate trials so that those people don’t go to prison—”

“But they _shouldn’t_! What would be the point of blood if it couldn’t get you something you wanted like that?”

“They claim that they’re nobler than other wizards,” Harry continues, not lifting his voice. “Or there would be no point in differentiating between those families and others. Like, say, the Weasleys.” He glances at Ginny, and she flinches and lowers her eyes and doesn’t raise them for the rest of the conversation. “But do they _act_ noble?”

He pauses, because in fact he wants Simon to answer that. Simon only stares at him. Then he says, “Of course they do.”

“Apparently lying into people and breaking into their fellow _Lords’_ houses and playing underhanded tricks with justice is noble behavior, then. Good to know where you stand, I suppose.”

“Listen to me, Lord Potter. I don’t want to speak to you disrespectfully, but you don’t really seem to understand how it works. Maybe because you had a Muggleborn mother. It’s just—they’re noble because their blood is noble. They had ancestors who fought great duels and kept the wizarding world safe from Muggles and won wars. It’s about the _whole_ bloodline, not just one person you happen to not like! They deserve their fortunes and the renown they have.”

“And they deserve not to be opposed?”

“No, of course not. But only other Lords and Ladies should oppose them.”

“Which is what I’m doing.”

Simon looks confounded for the first time since the conversation began. “I mean—I mean, it _does_ have to do with blood. I told you there could have been a Lord Morreth. You would have been honor-bound to treat me like an equal then.”

Harry takes a step forwards, a delicate, sliding step. “Treating you like an equal simply because I respect you as a human being isn’t possible?”

“It’s not as good as being treated like a Lord.”

“But you didn’t treat me like a Lord, either,” Harry says, and then wonders why he’s wasting his time. Simon has already shown that he’s impervious to logic. Harry also suspects that Lily _Evans_ is interfering in his brain even if he seemed awed by Harry’s Lordship before.

Harry Stuns Simon, and catches him with a Levitation Charm as he falls. Simon could bang his head and never wake up for all Harry cares, but it would be a little more inconvenient not to have him around to testify.

“You _can’t do that_ to my boyfriend.”

Ginny’s brave enough now, when she doesn’t have to face the consequences of slipping up in front of Simon. Harry just arches an eyebrow at her. “And he’s not supposed to be able to help people try to blackmail me, but I suppose that’s just the way things are. I’m not allowed to do all sorts of things other people can.”

Ginny balls her hands into fists. “He didn’t know what they would do!”

“He still betrayed a secret to them that wasn’t his to betray.”

“He didn’t do it on purpose! You’ve seen what he’s like, Harry. He—he’s—”

“Stupid?”

“No, damn it!” Ginny takes a single aggressive step forwards, and then shrinks just as fast when Harry’s magic whips up around him, a whirlwind edged here and there with sparks where it dances next to his hair. “He just has too much consideration for Lords and Ladies. Most people raised in the wizarding world do. You can’t fault him for that! You can’t arrest him for that!”

“Who said anything about arresting?”

“But you’re taking him away like an Auror—”

“No, like a Lord,” Harry says, and Lightens Simon so he can sling him over his shoulder. “He wanted so much to get better-acquainted with the system he thinks is great. I’m going to make sure he has a chance.”

“You’ll take him in front of the Sun Chamber?”

“No. Arbitrary justice.” Harry grins a sharp-edged grin at Ginny and then Apparates out of her flat, which tears the wards up something fierce. Well, he considers that punishment enough for the re-keying of his own wards that _she_ forced him to do.

*

“Excuse me! Can I have your attention, please?”

The people doing their afternoon shopping in Diagon Alley turn around to stare at him. Harry is posing impressively on a little conjured platform of wood and silver in the middle of the alley. It bobs up and down, floating on the curls of a mist Hermione taught him to create. The platform, though, is a spell from the books Honeywell sent him.

Simon is lying next to him, draped over the edge of the platform. Harry glances down at him and non-verbally returns him to consciousness. Simon bolts up, then almost slips off the platform and claws desperately at the wood to keep on.

“Yes, thank you,” Harry says, when he notices even more people stopping and craning their necks, and a few laughing. The spectacle of Simon sliding around like that is making everyone curious. “You probably know me best as Harry Potter. I suppose you can also call me Lord Potter and Lord Black if you like, but that’s a little awkward. Harry will do.”

“Who’s he?” yells someone near the back of the crowd. Harry would think it was George, but he doesn’t recognize the voice.

_Someone else brave enough to recognize the ridiculous when he sees it, then. Good._

“His name’s Simon Morreth,” says Harry. “But you don’t have to call him by his whole name, either. That’s even _more_ awkward.” He moves away as Simon tries to grab his robes to right himself, and Simon stands up on his own, glaring and flushed. “He thinks one of his ancestors could have slept with a Lord, so you can call him Lord Morreth.”

That makes more people laugh. Simon turns pale for the first time. “What are you doing?” he hisses out of the corner of his mouth. “This makes a mockery of the concept of Lords and Ladies! You can’t—can’t just tell them—”

“Lords are allowed to punish those who betray them,” Harry says, with his eyes wide and round, and making sure his voice carries. “As long as it’s in public, so everyone can see justice done, and the curse isn’t too damning.” He leaves unsaid the fact that most Lords and Ladies of the Sun Chamber haven’t done anything like this in centuries. It would have required alerting the public to what they were, and Merlin knows _that_ would have been something they wouldn’t like dealing with the consequences of.

Besides, that would have limited their ability to use Dark Arts and devastating curses. Harry has no need for that kind of revenge, not when he can—play.

Simon is staring at him. Then he swings around and points a finger at Harry. “He’s angry because I’m dating his ex-girlfriend!” he bleats. _Much like the sheep he is_ , Harry thinks idly as he stands and watches Simon. “That’s the only reason I’m here! Anyone who thinks the _great_ Harry Potter is compassionate and forgiving is _wrong_! His mother must have something to do with it!”

A few uneasy titters rise from the audience. Harry only shakes his head and sighs. “He’s been like this most of his life,” he confesses to the crowd. “He thinks only blood is important, and then when someone turns against him, it’s all about their character being affected by their blood. Not their actions. Just some strange idea of what flows in their veins. I don’t know how to help him.”

“ _Was_ he dating Ginny Weasley?” someone calls.

“Oh, he still is,” Harry say calmly. “What she does is her business. But he acquired the secret to my home wards, and betrayed it to a few other people, and that’s not on. So.” He spins his wand in Simon’s direction. “ _Veritatis perpetua._ ”

The curse settles, gleaming, over Simon, and he stiffens as the silver light, shaped like a hood and cloak, sinks into his skin. Then he stares at Harry, his eyes hateful. “What did you do to me, you Potter bastard?”

“You’ll tell the truth now.” Harry puts his wand away and shrugs.

“I was right about you,” Simon says, with the gloomy air of someone who can only take pleasure in being right. “Your Mudblood mother was the reason the Potter line went wrong. My father knew your father, and he says James Potter would never have done something like this.”

Some people gasp, although Harry knows it’s more in pretended outrage over the word than real outrage. He smiles at Simon, who only stares at him. “What? It’s the truth.”

“Indeed,” Harry says, and he leaps down from the platform and walks away. Behind him, Simon swears as the platform dissolves, along with the mist it was floating on, and dumps him on the ground. People immediately surround him and start asking questions. From the sound of it, he’s trying to give them the key to Harry’s wards.

Harry snorts. He’s changed the wards long since, but that’s the sort of pathetic he has to expect from a man who admires pure-blood politics.

*

“Did you _have_ to do that, Harry?”

Kingsley sounds so long-suffering as he barges into Harry’s office. Harry puts down the paperwork he’s been writing and gives Kingsley a faint smile. “Tell me what you mean? I’ve done so many things lately, I could be missing something you want to remind me of.”

Kingsley considers the ceiling, considers the corner of Harry’s desk, considers him. “I meant subject Simon Morreth to the Perpetual Truth Curse.”

“Oh, is he trying to sue the Ministry while at the same time talking about all sorts of unfortunate blood purist bollocks?” Harry asks, and makes his tone gentle and shocked.

Kingsley pauses. “Yes, actually.”

Harry shakes his head. “You can see the books that make it perfectly legal if you want. I can curse him like that because I’m a Lord and I can get away with it. He spread knowledge that could have meant my death. Why would I do anything else except take revenge on him?” He picks up his quill and goes back to writing.

“That’s not the sort of thing a Lord does.”

“Perfectly legal.”

“Because it’s legal doesn’t make it _right_.”

Harry can’t help it. He does laugh, and it’s the sort of belly-shaking, body-shaking laugh that’s going to go on for a long time. Kingsley actually shoots a Sobering Charm at him to help him out of it, and Harry sits back, smiling and shaking his head as he wipes the tears from his eyes.

“And, of course, that’s more morally reprehensible than making sure criminals related to pure-blood families aren’t tried for crimes,” he says. “Or making sure that accused Muggleborns are _always_ convicted. Or influencing the Wizengamot and lying to the wizarding world about their existence. Or—”

“Yes, yes, Harry. I understand.” Kingsley grips his wand and stares around as though he could break through the walls. “But do _you_ understand? You’ve _destroyed_ a man’s life. Morreth won’t be able to get employment anywhere if he can’t speak the little lies that make it necessary to flatter people and pretend that he’s interested—”

“And it doesn’t destroy a Muggleborn witch’s or wizard’s chance of employment to have spent years in Azkaban for a crime they didn’t commit? Or an offense that would only get a pure-blood charged with a month or so?”

Kingsley shuts his eyes. “What do you want me to do about it?” he breathes. “This is the world we live in, Harry. You can rail at it and pretend that you don’t understand why what you did to Morreth is horrendous, or you can correct your error and apologize, and we’ll make sure the implications of this don’t spread too far.”

Harry only shakes his head. He knows they need him to get the Perpetual Truth Curse off Simon. It’s one of those annoying curses that can only be lifted by the caster. “No. This is the way Lords can pursue revenge. I took it.”

“But if you think that what those Lords did was so wrong, why would you adopt their tactics?”

 _Because no others will work to destroy them._ Kingsley will hardly want to hear that, though, and Harry knows he’ll have few things to cling to as the Ministry comes tumbling down. His illusions might as well be among them. Harry shrugs. “They keep saying that what they do is right, and so do you. It’s only when I do it that it’s wrong. Why, Kingsley? Why not give me the same benefit of the doubt that you give other Lords? _Is_ it because my mother was Muggleborn?”

As expected, that makes Kingsley shoot up from the chair. “No! Of course not! But you’re supposed to be better than them, Harry.”

“Do you think they’re horrible people?”

Kingsley’s eyes slide away.

Harry nods. Kingsley is too invested in those notions of pure blood mattering and not allowing those notions to surface in his thoughts too often. “Please leave, Kingsley. I’m trying to work, and it’s difficult when hypocrisy is distracting me.”

Kingsley does go. Harry gets a Howler a few minutes later from Ginny, who is yelling at him for “forcing” Simon to tell her some unflattering truths about her wardrobe and her hair, and what he finds most attractive in other witches.

Harry smiles a little, listens to the Howler for enjoyment, and then destroys it. Seconds later, he’s back at work, part of his mind on the way Neville’s plot is probably playing out, part of him contemplating when people like Kingsley got so cowardly.

It’s only when he’s preparing to leave that he gets a Floo call. Harry turns towards the fireplace, one hand loosely on his wand. Molly Weasley’s face appears in the flames and stares at him.

“Harry. Can you come over? We need to talk.”

 _We probably do,_ Harry thinks, and goes through the flames, vaguely curious about where she’ll lay Ginny’s and Ron’s competing claims as the daughter who’s been “wronged” and the son who’s still his best friend.


	11. Trod the Road

“I heard about what you did to Simon.”

Harry nods as he sips at the fresh orange juice Molly gave him when he came in. At least he’s not so out of favor as to not get his favorite juice. “I would be surprised if most people don’t know by now.”

“The curse was cruel.”

Harry nods again. “But not as cruel as it could have been. I would have done a lot worse to _most_ people who gave away the key of my wards to someone. Especially if it had turned out to be an assassin sent by an idiot.” He puts down the orange juice as he notices Molly’s hands clench. He doesn’t think she’ll attack him, but he likes the idea of having his hands free, anyway. After seven years as an Auror, it’s hard to ignore his instincts.

Molly finally swallows and says, “This notion of arbitrary justice. You wouldn’t have done that before becoming a member of the Sun Chamber?”

Harry shakes his head. “On the other hand, I wouldn’t _have_ to do it with most people. They would respect me enough not to betray my secret.”

Molly looks away from him. “But it’s Ginny.”

“Yes. She’s the only reason that I didn’t punish Simon as harshly as I could have. It had nothing to do with Simon himself.”

Molly says nothing and fidgets with the corner of the shawl thrown over her shoulders. Harry watches her and wonders when she started wearing them. He thinks it might have begun with Fred’s death, but then, he tends to attribute everything to that unless he thinks carefully. It’s definitely the biggest change in Molly’s life.

“She still loves you.” Molly seems intensely interested in the remains of the fire in the hearth.

“She was the one who broke up with me.” Harry shrugs and sips at his juice again. “I know very well that I can’t give her what she needs. If she’s trying to say that she needs me to, now…” He can only shake his head. “I can’t be that for her.”

Molly says nothing for so long that Harry almost thinks the conversation is done. This isn’t at all the way he pictured it going when Molly called him through the fire. She looked as if she would spit at him like a Hungarian Horntail.

 _When did everyone get so small and old?_ It can’t be Fred’s death for everyone. Harry knows how Ron and Hermione think, and he _thought_ he understood Ginny and Molly. But he’s trying to think back on it, and he wonders now how long it’s been since he actually spoke to any of them in full comprehension of what they were feeling.

He’s still thinking when Molly glances up and says, “I’m afraid that Ginny’s never going to be over you.”

Harry only blinks and replies, “I can’t help that.”

Molly rambles on, her eyes fixed on the far wall. “She chooses men who are like you in some way, have you noticed that? All dark-haired and confident about something. With Simon that confidence was misplaced, but…” She trails off, uncertain. “I think that she’ll never find what she wants unless she gets you back. It’s why she’s so angry about what you did to Simon.”

“Hell, Kingsley is angry about what I did to Simon.” Harry finishes his orange juice and wonders if he ought to get more. Ordinarily, he would, but he doesn’t feel much like a guest in the Burrow at the moment. “And I’m pretty sure Kingsley’s not in love with me.”

He hopes to at least startle a smile out of Molly, but Molly only shakes her head, solemn. “Ginny’s dreamed of you from the time she was nine years old.”

“I can’t help that.”

“Something broke in her when she saw how broken you were by the war.”

Harry rolls his eyes. He honestly wouldn’t describe himself as broken, more like tarnished, but he’s heard that description too many times now to be offended by it. “I can’t help that, either. It’s not as though she went through easy things at Hogwarts.” Honestly, he thinks that’s another reason they broke up, although Ginny would never acknowledge it: she was always pushing him to talk about his “trauma” but would never talk about hers. Harry thought at the time they just handled things differently. Now he sees it as another way in which their relationship wasn’t equal.

“Would you consider getting back together with her?”

“No.”

Molly flinches a little, and Harry tries to soften his voice. Honestly, he’s getting too used to dealing with Kingsley and his ilk. He doesn’t need to snap at _everyone_ , and it’s important for him to remember that.

“She broke up with _me_ ,” Harry says again. “And she betrayed me even though she didn’t mean to. And she’s just—she doesn’t fit with the kind of person I am. She didn’t want me to care so much about politics. Now I’m invested enough in politics that I can’t back away from it.” He pauses, wondering if he should say the last reason, which might hurt Molly as well as Ginny. But watching her hopeless, hoping eyes, he decides he has to. “And I think Ginny ought to ask me herself if she really wants to, not delegate you to ask for her.”

Molly does flinch again, but says nothing to contradict his assumption. Harry nods. He was right, then. This isn’t about Molly pleading with Harry on behalf of her daughter. Ginny _asked_ Molly to do it.

Honestly, Harry has no patience with people who aren’t honest or brave enough to ask their own uncomfortable questions, either. And as for whether he would let them into his bed? No way.

He stands up, brushes a kiss over Molly’s cheek, and quietly tells her farewell. He thinks invitations to the Burrow might be rare for a little while.

But it’s nothing that will make him stop or turn aside.

*

“I challenge Lord Potter to a duel!”

Harry raises slow eyebrows. He’s been sitting in the Sun Chamber and listening as Neville waxed dramatically on and on about his wards. Apparently several Lords and Ladies have gone over to Neville’s house to examine the ones he’s worried about and get his advice on strengthening their own. Harry knows their plan is going well because of the grin that Neville gave him when he came in.

But he didn’t expect this. On the other hand, it’s not like he’s never dealt with the unexpected before. He puts his hand on his wand and says calmly, “One punishment not enough for you, Lord Parkinson?”

Honeywell flutters back and forth and looks distractedly around. “Surely, Lord Parkinson, one challenge—”

“He impugned my honor! He impugns my daughter’s honor!”

“How?” And Harry is a little curious. He hasn’t said a word to Pansy Parkinson since the Battle of Hogwarts.

Atlas splutters in a way that made it clear this accusation wasn’t part of his fantasy. Then he points his wand dramatically at the ceiling. Harry can’t help noticing that that action lifts the sleeve of his robe in a way that exposes his armpit, and it looks like it hasn’t been scrubbed out in _years_. “By existing!”

Harry can’t help it; he snorts laughter even though he’s honestly trying to act like he cares about the rules of the Sun Chamber. But he’s not the only one. Neville is smothering as many chuckles into coughs as he can, and Shafiq is grinning her narrow grin.

“That’s interesting,” Harry says. He lounges back in his seat, and if someone thinks he’s being disrespectful, well, they’re right. Besides, they’re probably all too fixated on Parkinson at the moment to notice. “Because there must be lots of people who impugn your honor, if that’s your definition.”

It takes Atlas a short time to get it, but his face turns the color of an apple in a Muggle supermarket, and he aims his wand. Honeywell immediately gets in the way, flapping her arms like a windmill.

“Not in the Sun Chamber! Not in the Sun Chamber!”

 _No, we only kill each other outside of it,_ Harry thinks idly, as he watches Honeywell force Atlas to back down. But he glares at Harry, and jabs a finger. “Tomorrow, at noon, Potter! In the Ministry Atrium!”

Harry widens his eyes. “You would conduct a duel indoors, within an area a large number of people pass through each day?”

“No, no, Lord Potter, I’m sure that he didn’t mean it like that.” Honeywell is looking fretfully back and forth between them. “Choose a sane place, Atlas.”

Atlas just gets angrier and angrier when he realizes what a fool he made of himself in his desire for drama. “Then—then _you_ choose a place, Potter! And just realize that the duel is going to be to the death!”

Harry gives a rippling shrug even as Honeywell tries to hiss at Atlas about how this contravenes protocol. “I was thinking that we might fight in the graveyard at Godric’s Hollow.”

There’s silence, although Harry thinks it’s coming from Atlas because he’s perplexed, not because he understands what the rest of them do. He’s probably trying to remember where he’s heard of Godric’s Hollow.

“You would fight in front of Muggles, Lord Potter?” Honeywell finally asks.

“Oh, I’m sure that we can put up enough charms to hide ourselves and keep them away from the fight,” Harry says, and smiles at Atlas. “But it’s a special place. If I win, then my parents can witness my victory from their graves. If I don’t, then you won’t have to take me far away to bury me.”

There’s more staring, as people try to work out how serious he is. Only Neville, unnoticed by the others, is rolling his eyes.

“Er, right, of course,” Honeywell says, and then coughs a little. “You will not be reconciled? We can ill afford to lose two Lords in such a short period of time.” But she sounds resigned. Maybe it’s less serious this time because Atlas has an Heiress and Selwyn didn’t, Harry thinks idly.

“No! He made accusations against me!”

“Accusations that happened to be true,” Harry says mildly. “Or the stole of the Chamber wouldn’t have burned you.”

Atlas just stands there and fumes. Harry glances away from him and towards Honeywell. She sighs again and sits down.

Good. She’s not going to interfere, then. Harry doesn’t particularly like her, and thinks she deserves to be pulled down just like all the other Lords and Ladies, but he doesn’t want to hurt her much either, if he can help it. She’s a true believer, not someone who’s given up like Kingsley has.

“If we are all agreed about the duel,” Neville says in a serious voice, pulling their attention back to him, “then we might start to consider my wards again, and the necessity of more Lords and Ladies coming over to see them. I’m just a _young_ Lord, and due to my tragic circumstances—” he bows his head “—no one was able to raise and train me in the duties of my Lordship the way I should have been trained. That means that I need people to help me tell me how secure my house should be…”

Harry’s irritation with Atlas melts into amusement once more, and he leans back and listens with a smile. Of course the Lords and Ladies will patronize Neville, but he can put up with that in a way Harry can’t. With his trembling lip and helpless smile, he can lure them into walking into his house. Harry has too dangerous a reputation to snare any but the most hot-headed idiots.

And when they walk into Neville’s house, they’ll have to pass underneath a certain stone in the archway of his front door. The stone is enchanted to record their magical signatures.

What will come when it’s fully charged ought to prove _interesting_.

*

“I don’t want you to fight the duel with Atlas Parkinson. It’s not a good look for the Ministry.”

Harry lowers the paper and blinks at Kingsley. He got in late to his desk this morning, and hasn’t had the chance to read the _Prophet’s_ latest recounting of the protest in Diagon Alley this morning, where people protested the notion of captive house-elves alongside that of Muggleborn spell-crafters who are pressured to sell their work for a pittance to pure-bloods, who then claim credit. “What?”

“You shouldn’t fight a duel with another Lord. It’s not a good look for the Ministry.”

“The Ministry hasn’t attempted to regulate the duels I fought before this. Even the ones rogue Death Eaters challenged me to when I was still nineteen years old,” Harry says mildly as he rolls up his newspaper and considers Kingsley. Kingsley’s lips are twitching in agitation, and he avoids Harry’s eyes as though he thinks that that will keep Harry from using Legilimency on him. But Harry’s never seen the need to master Legilimency when he can just use hard words. “Why this one?”

“It’s not a good look for the Ministry.”

“Not a good look for them to let a teenager be challenged by fugitives, either. But it still happened.”

Kingsley’s hands are so tight around the arms of his chair that Harry thinks he’s going to break something. If Kingsley does, then Harry plans to offer a healing spell. Just because he thinks the man is frequently a coward doesn’t mean that he wants him in pain. “That was different.”

“Why?”

“The Ministry and the Sun Chamber are two branches of government. At the time, you were only an Auror trainee, one who might have dropped out of the program. We really had no official _standing_ to complain.”

“You didn’t attempt to regulate the duel that Lord Selwyn and Lady Shafiq fought a few weeks ago.”

Kingsley is silent. Then he abruptly explodes out of his chair and paces around Harry’s office, his head bowed and his breath whistling through his lungs as though he’s just run a race.

Harry only watches him. If Kingsley wants to be this tiresome, he can try. And really, Harry doesn’t have to keep asking what the difference is between the Ministry’s interest in _him_ and its lack of interest in other Lords and Ladies. He knows.

But he’d still like to hear Kingsley state it openly, because he’s not sure that _Kingsley_ knows.

Finally, Kingsley turns around, and he looks like a man who’s come to the point that he has to admit the problem. “You’re not just another Lord,” he says. “Or another Auror. If you die on our watch, then we’re going to get questions about why we didn’t prevent it. If you kill Lord Parkinson, then we’ll get cries that we sanctioned murder.”

“But not in the other duel?”

“Neither of them was as famous as you are.”

Harry smiles a little. Well, it’s kind of a smile. Let Kingsley mistake it for one if he wants. _Now we come to it._ “So this is about my name recognition. Not about Lords dueling. Not about Aurors dueling.”

Kingsley at least has the bollocks to look him in the eye when he puts it like that, instead of glancing away and fidgeting again. “Yes.”

Harry nods slowly, and sighs a little. Honestly, at this point he would be just as pleased to quit the Aurors. But the resistance still needs him there too much. He can get insider information and perhaps recruit Aurors like Weston who show flashes of good sense. And he wants to show the Ministry that, in the end, it was someone they counted as one of their own who helped bring them down.

“Fine,” he says. “I don’t intend to shirk the duel, which I couldn’t anyway, by the rules of the Sun Chamber. Is that enough for you? That I’m trying to obey the rules, and not running all around London trying to embarrass the Ministry of my own free will?” _That’s what I have my fellow Lords and Ladies for._

Kingsley sits down and gives him such an open look that Harry’s skin prickles a little. It seems like he’s finally about to get the truth, and he’s waited long enough for that. He takes the chair across from Kingsley again. It feels less like he needs to be on his feet in case Kingsley suddenly attacks.

“I wanted to be a Lord so badly,” Kingsley whispers, and he’s looking past Harry at something so far in the distance that Harry doesn’t have any idea what it _is_. “And then I lost the chance. I thought anyone who had the chance was—blessed. I got used to living without it. But the first thing I thought when I heard that you had not one but two Lordships was what I would do to be in your place.”

 _If the Sun Chamber was only a lot of blowhards with no effect on wizarding government, you could have it._ But Harry holds his tongue and listens. He knows he won’t get another chance if he blows this one.

“And then you seem to treat it casually and not care much about it.” Kingsley seems to remember that a living, breathing person is in the room with him, and gives Harry an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry. But that’s what it _seems_ like.”

_That’s exactly what it’s like._

Harry only widens his smile and claps Kingsley on the shoulder. “As long as you remember that it’s my Lordship—my Lordships, sorry—and remember that you can’t project your personal opinions all over me.”

Kingsley’s actually relaxing, nodding. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Harry. I let old bitterness overwhelm me.” He shakes Harry’s hand. “Thanks for understanding. And of course you don’t really hate your Lordships and wish they were gone. That would be ridiculous.”

Harry smiles without showing his teeth and waves Kingsley out of the office. Then he sits back and indulges in the eyerolling that he had to deny himself until now.

At least Kingsley should be less suspicious of him now. And Harry knows exactly what’s going on in his head. More about him than the Ministry, yes.

_But. Him and Susan and even Ginny, if she finds Simon impressive enough to date when he brags about the Lordship he could have had all the time. Why are so many people I like idiots?_


	12. Seen the Heavens Opening

“Couldn’t you have avoided this duel?” Hermione sighs. Her head is barely visible behind the enormous tome open in front of her, a book that Harry found in a hidden cache in the walls of Grimmauld Place. The tome is bound in black, crinkled leather, and a scrap of the skin falls off as Harry watches. “It’s going to accelerate some of our plans, and you _know_ I wanted to wait.”

“I didn’t choose it, Parkinson did. And you know that we’re ready. You just want to wait and test the spells again.”

“Of _course_ I do! It’s their lives on the line if I don’t, not mine!”

Harry turns away from the mirror in front of him. They’re in Grimmauld Place by necessity, since the book can’t be removed from it. “Hermione,” he says softly, and Hermione blinks and glances at him. Harry reaches out and clasps her hand where it rests on top of the book.

“You know they’re ready. They wouldn’t have given you that petition signed in their blood and magic if they weren’t.”

Hermione blinks and swallows and looks down at the shiny ebony table underneath the book. The book almost covers that, too. “But they’re still the ones who’ll pay the price if I get it wrong.”

“I know. But they’re willing to take that chance.”

“I—Harry, is there any way you can avoid killing Parkinson? You know that the magic to get rid of the bonds he has will be easier if he’s alive. The bonds are going to writhe and change when the magic shifts to Pansy.”

“Not that much,” Harry says, holding her gaze, challenging her to _think_. “Yeah, the magic transfers from person to person when the head of the family changes, but that’s only because someone’s _died_. The idea that it matters that much and everything changes because of the blood is pure-blood propaganda.”

Hermione grimaces. “But it still changes, and I don’t want anything to go wrong.”

“I know. But _you_ know that he’ll make it to the death. I could try all I like to avoid killing him and it wouldn’t work.”

“I do know.” Hermione reaches out and puts a hand over his. “All right. Do what you need to do, to survive. I’ll continue setting this up, and when the morning dawns that we can actually cast it…”

Harry grins. He knows it’s a bloodthirsty one, but Hermione is giving its mirror back to him, so it’s not like she minds. “Every pure-blood in Britain who prides themselves on a certain level of tradition is going to be _so_ surprised.”

*

“I wanted to give you a few minutes in privacy with your parents, Potter, to tell them that you’ll be joining them soon.”

Harry turns around from looking at his parents’ graves. Atlas is standing there, sneering at him. Pansy is behind him, and both Malfoys, and Honeywell, and a handful of other people from the Sun Chamber come to witness the duel. The only person who came to join Harry is Ron. _He_ leans on the fence of the graveyard, watching silently.

“I said all I need to say to them years ago. They understand.” And they do. Even though Harry would still like to know some things, like how much his father had been trained for the Sun Chamber and whether he would have refused the Lordship, he’s made his peace. He drops his cloak on the ground and faces Atlas in the nondescript black robes he favors for dueling—his one concession to Kingsley’s concerns is that he won’t wear scarlet Auror robes when he does this. “Are you ready?”

“Where is your sense of _ceremony_? Of course we will declare the terms we’re dueling on, and then we bow to each other…”

Atlas is practically spluttering, but Harry, his body balanced and calm and his eyes locked on the man’s face, knows the reason he’s spluttering isn’t some indignation about Harry “neglecting the ceremonies.” He’s afraid.

“If you want to do that, we can. Why did you challenge me to this duel?”

“To avenge the insult that your existence represents for me and my daughter.” Atlas drops his own cloak into Pansy’s hands. Her face is utterly expressionless, so Harry has no idea what she thinks about him dueling her father. Atlas steps towards Harry and begins to circle. Harry turns to match him. “To avenge the insult that giving a Lordship to a _half-blood_ represents.”

“Two Lordships,” Harry points out helpfully. He studies the way Atlas shuffles, the sureness of his movements. He could be a dangerous opponent if he was younger and Harry not so well-trained.

Atlas’s face darkens, but he jerks his head down. “My Lord Black, my Lord Potter,” he says mockingly. “Are you ready to bow?”

“Yes,” Harry says, and inclines his neck in the formal dueler’s bow that he perfected a long time ago with those criminals who think it’s some kind of honor to formally face the Boy-Who-Lived. Because his neck is so closely parallel to the ground, he can do it without actually taking his eyes off his foe.

Atlas does the same, though his head bows a little more. And then he springs up and hurls a curse towards Harry that would shatter every bone in his body if it hit. Harry moves aside like a dancer, and it shatters a gravestone instead.

“Lord Parkinson! The witnesses—”

Dimly, Harry can hear Ron reassuring Honeywell that they’ve already set up the wards that will keep any curses from spinning outwards and hitting the people who came to watch, but he can’t take his gaze away from Atlas. His blood is dimming the world, his heart a steady pounding in his ears that he _wants_ to keep pounding. As always happens when he duels, his focus narrows and intensifies.

He can feel every step Atlas makes, every winded breath he gasps long before Harry begins really casting. He _is_ Atlas. He knows his strengths, his weaknesses, how to kill him.

But he doesn’t want to do it too soon. That would frighten people—well, the other Lords and Ladies in the Sun Chamber—and tell them too much about him, about his magic and how strong he is. So Harry plays instead.

He casts a Tripping Jinx that Atlas only partially avoids, so that he’s hopping on one foot for a second as he makes his way past one of the gravestones. Harry aims at the hopping foot, and the ground underneath it turns to water. With a small splash, Atlas soaks his robes up to a few inches from the hem.

Silence for a second. His face turns puce. Harry honestly wonders if he’ll die from a heart attack before they can finish the duel.

Then Atlas roars and charges him.

Harry slips out of the way, his breath and heartbeat still twinned with Atlas’s, still telling him exactly what to do. He aims his wand, and this time a subtle twist of a spell catches the wet robe itself, and tangles it around Atlas’s feet. This time, Atlas measures full-length in the grass and plastic flowers in front of one grave. Harry stifles a snicker as one of the petals on the plastic flowers scratches his cheek.

“Stand and fight like a man, _Lord_ Potter!” Atlas scrambles up. His eyes are hot and his wand is waving so fast that it blurs in the air. He casts nonverbally, and Harry only knows what the curse coming towards him does and how to shield himself from it because he once saw a Dark wizard use it on him.

Harry spent a week in hospital afterwards. He’s not about to let it happen again.

Instead, he inclines his wand lazily, and a shield springs up in front of him, one made of spinning, silvery, transparent blades. They chop the curse apart, coming down one right after another, and continuing to strike the air for an eighth, ninth, tenth time, even though the Face-Eating Curse was probably dead on the third strike.

The shield dissipates when Harry wills it to. He looks up at Atlas and sees the stiff way he’s clutching his wand. That was probably one of his most powerful curses, and Harry still managed to throw it off like it was nothing.

That makes Harry tense with recognition. There’s no reason not to move now. He’s already revealed his power to anyone who cares to look, and from the look dawning on Atlas’s face, he realizes that he won’t live to mourn his mistake anyway.

Atlas lashes a Burning Rope in front of him, trying to grab Harry’s ankles and trip him, but Harry leaps over it and closes in, conjuring fences to the right and left. By the time Atlas thinks to glance around, Harry has already neatly trapped him against the bars that loom there.

“Going somewhere?”

Atlas locks his eyes on Harry as he steps forwards. Perhaps a foot parts them now. That’s enough for Harry to see the blood flooding to Atlas’s cheeks and the glitter that takes his eyes, the wild, mad glitter that Harry has seen in Dark wizards before. _I’ll go down, but I’ll kill you before I do._

This close, Atlas seems to think it’ll be hard for Harry to dodge anything he throws. He raises his wand and nonverbally summons the red light that means it’s going to be the Vampiric Hex, draining all Harry’s blood through his pores when it lands.

Harry simply raises an eyebrow and flings his own spell, a white, glittering coat that settles like frost around Atlas’s nose and mouth. He drops his wand as he thrashes, hands rising to clutch at the mask.

He can’t melt it, not when the strength of the Frost Curse depends on the magic behind it. Harry holds the mask, and watches dispassionately as Atlas suffocates to death, his thrashing head nearly breaking his wand by itself.

“Stop it! Stop it, Potter!”

That’s Pansy Parkinson shrieking, trying to break through the barriers of wards that are holding her back. Harry shrugs and steps back. If there are “Lords” and “Ladies” who want to open the barriers and let her in, then they can.

But Harry feels no guilt for this death. Atlas would have killed him more painfully if he’d had the chance, and he was the one who brought the challenge for the duel. Maybe now they’ll understand a little better what exactly they’re facing, and let Harry get on with destroying them in peace.

Someone does eventually lift one of the wards that are meant to keep spells from flying into the audience, probably because they’ve remembered there are no spells anymore, and Pansy dashes forwards and flings herself down on her knees next to Atlas. Her hands are working frantically, but none of her magic can melt the frost. And Atlas is already almost dead, anyway.

Pansy stares up at him, and her eyes are filled with hate. “Heal him, Potter. Or I’ll _never_ forgive you.”

Harry looks at her in interest, ignoring the gasps of the other members of the Sun Chamber. It seems that no one has ever dared demand something like this before. It kind of interests him. At least Pansy seems as if she’s breaking the rules out of love for her father, not to gain some political advantage.

Holding her eyes, Harry flicks his wand and breaks the frost away. In seconds, there’s small melting crystals on the grass around Atlas, and he’s sucking in so much breath that it looks as if he’s going to float right off the grass, the way Harry remembers Aunt Marge doing.

Pansy gasps and places her hand on her father’s shoulder. Her expression is blissful. Harry feels a little stirring in his heart. He wonders if he would ever feel like that if his parents had lived.

Then Atlas sits up, snatches his wand, and casts the Killing Curse at Harry. Harry whirls aside from it. Honestly, he expected this, especially since there’s no provision in the rules of the Sun Chamber for a duel declared to the death to end in anything _other_ than death.

“You might not want to try that spell,” Harry says, head cocked as he spins a charm that comes together as glittering lines of gold in front of him. “Historically, no one’s managed to kill me with it yet.”

Atlas answers with a full-throated snarl, and lunges after him again. Pansy isn’t begging and pleading this time—either asking her father to stop or Harry to refrain from killing him. She’s just watching intently.

Well, Harry sort of expected that. He can still honor her love for her father without _dying_ to honor it.

This time, when Atlas takes another step forwards and casts a curse that would turn every bone in Harry’s body to fine powder if it managed to land, Harry sends the net towards him with a lazy flick of his wand. The net spreads out as it flies, but comes to a stop hovering in front of Atlas, instead of touching him.

Atlas laughs aloud. “Do all your spells fail you like this, Potter?” he taunts. “ _Finite Incantatem_!”

“Shouldn’t have done that,” Harry says without concern as he watches the net twist and grow and shine more brightly as it absorbs the magic. Then Atlas dies abruptly as the net spits the spell back at him, and everything in his body is reduced to a powder in an instant. The more powerful version of the magic that hit him probably turned his organs to soup, too.

Harry banishes the net with a twitch of his wrist and ignores the way Pansy screams as she falls to her knees beside her father. “Is the honor of the Sun Chamber satisfied?” he asks the witnesses, his eyes going along the line, counting the ones who haven’t visited Neville’s house and had their magical signatures recorded by his keystone yet. “Or does anyone else want to duel me and try to kill me?”

“You killed my _father_!”

Pansy is bowling towards him, her wand raised and her mouth so wide open that Harry can make out most of her tonsils. He rolls his eyes a little and hops to the side, lashing out a kick with one foot. It hits her elbow and sends her wand spinning away. She clutches her arm, whimpering, and it’s easy for Harry to kick again, this time into her stomach, and send her sprawling to the grass.

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head. “You don’t get to do that. You’d have to issue a formal challenge and proclaim that you wanted to duel me, first. And I already spared your father once. You knew he could die as an outcome of this duel.”

“You’re dead, Potter.”

Her eyes are staring at him with utter hatred. Harry feels his lip quiver, but manages to restrain the smile that would probably send some of them screaming away in fear. “And therefore I should have lain down and let your father kill me?”

“It’s all that I’d expect of the son of a Mudblood.”

Harry feels the freezing anger start to surge up from his chest, but honestly, at the moment, it’s easily controllable. “I was under the impression that it wasn’t the done thing to insult your fellow Lords and Ladies,” he says mildly. “Unless you _do_ want to duel.”

“Of course it isn’t done!” Honeywell bustles towards them, her robes flaring out like a hen’s wings. “Heir—Lady Parkinson, I mean, please do control yourself. Of course your father died in a terrible way, but—”

“That’s the way he meant for _me_ to die,” Harry points out helpfully.

“ _You_ would have deserved it!”

“So only pure-bloods can use Dark Arts?”

Pansy only stares at him, her eyes cold and devouring. Harry just waits. The other members of the Sun Chamber are shifting around and muttering. He can see at least a few thoughtful looks on some faces. It seems that perhaps evidence of what he can do is finally piercing through their blind shields of hatred when it comes to people who are descended from Muggleborns. Perhaps they are _finally_ starting to grasp that blood has nothing to do with abilities.

And if they don’t and just decide not to attack him anymore because they fear him, that’s fine, too. What matters is that they leave him alone and don’t get in the way of his plans—until he needs them to respond to Hermione’s and Neville’s spells, that is.

“I agree with Lord Potter.”

Harry twitches and looks sideways. It’s Susan, who hasn’t attended some of these meetings and has been utterly silent at others. She’s staring at him with her mouth set in a firm line, but she doesn’t seem hostile. At least, he can’t see anything in her expression or feel anything from her magic which indicates she is.

“I think we should absolutely be consistent in the application of our own rules,” Susan continues earnestly. “If we wouldn’t reject a pure-blood Lady or Lord from our ranks for using Dark Arts, then we shouldn’t reject someone with a Muggleborn mother.”

Harry gives her a cautious nod. He’s not sure what reason Susan has for changing her mind.

He only hopes that it’s a genuine change and that he can count her as a non-threat in the way that he probably can’t count her as an ally.

Pansy stands up and walks away without another word. Honeywell goes after her. The other Lords and Ladies make the polite noises that one does at the conclusion of a duel, and Harry turns and leaves with Ron falling into step behind him the minute he’s out of the crowd.

“They’re never going to know what hit them, are they,” Ron says. He sounds like he pities the Sun Chamber, a little.

“No. But this time, they might know the direction the blow is coming from.” Harry has to smile.


	13. Mighty Nations Would Have Crowned Me

Harry wakes up with an abrupt toss of his wand into his hand and a fire spell dancing on his tongue. When he hears wings flapping above him, he manages to redirect it into a spell that only lights the candles beside his bed.

The black owl carrying a thick golden letter—a bird he doesn’t recognize—swerves over to the side and lands on the perch that he keeps near the wall, staring at him. Harry sits up in bed and eyes the letter. He doesn’t know anyone who uses parchment, or an envelope, whichever it is, the color of pure gold. It’s beyond ostentatious. It actually hurts his eyes, glittering in the candlelight. Even the Sun Chamber just uses their seal, the _symbol_ of a sun, on a white background.

“Who do you belong to anyway?” he asks the owl, which has eyes and legs as golden as the envelope.

It peers at him haughtily, and doesn’t answer. Harry rolls his eyes and casts a spell of his own creation that Summons the letter from the owl without hurting it. The owl squawks and flaps its wings as the letter zooms away from it and lands in Harry’s hand.

“Should have brought it to me in the first place,” Harry tells it absently as he examines the letter. No, the parchment really is golden, which means that it probably has grains of gold dust embedded in it. He’s read about such things. Never seen it.

 _Whoever this is is probably making a mistake by thinking this will impress me,_ Harry decides, but he slits the letter open with a precise Cutting Curse anyway, once he’s determined that the envelope doesn’t contain anything dangerous to him.

The parchment inside is just as intensely gold, and Harry lowers the level of the flames on the candles before he can read it.

_Dear Lord Potter,_

_I know it must seem like everyone in the Sun Chamber is against you, underestimating you for your mother’s blood. But this letter is to tell you that you do have your adherents, those who appreciate your magical blood and the shakeup that you have brought to this group of Lords and Ladies._

_We have thought for a long time that the Sun Chamber is past its usefulness. It cannot even obey its own rules when dealing with anyone who is slightly different. We wish to join you in changing them._

Harry cocks his head at the owl. “Well, your owners might be ostentatious, but maybe they know what they’re talking about,” he tells the bird, who fluffs up all its feathers and turns its head around to face the other way. Harry goes back to the letter with a faint smile on his face that feels good.

 _To this end, we wish to speak with you about dissolving both the Sun Chamber and the Ministry_ —

“Better and better.”

_—and making you the magical monarch of wizarding Britain._

Harry drops the letter flat on the bed and howls with laughter, so hard that soon he’s howling for breath. He rolls in a circle on the bed, his hands clasped over his stomach. The owl twists its head to stare at him over its shoulder again.

Harry finally splutters to a halt, and lies there, grinning at the ceiling. _Really_. There are people smart enough to figure out what he’s doing with the Sun Chamber—members, it sounds like—but stupid enough to think he would want to be a _king_?

Then Harry pauses thoughtfully. No, they must not think that. They must just know that he’s powerful and they’re looking for some way to take advantage of it. He can’t actually advance in the Sun Chamber. Holder of two Lordships or not, he’s not a leader there. He can’t claim more Lordships. He can’t even climb much higher in the Auror ranks. These people must think that offering him a way to a kind of promotion and to use his magical power openly would be a temptation.

They even talk about dissolving the Ministry. So they’re picking up on, or intuiting, the fact that he doesn’t want the Ministry to stay around, either.

They would almost be allies. If not for that last, stupid line.

But it’s not the last line of the letter, is it? Harry picks the thing up, ignoring the way his fingers almost clang off the stupid gold parchment, and reads a little more.

_If you are open to discussing this, then wait for us in the Ministry Atrium at midnight tomorrow._

It’ll be easy for Harry to contrive a way to be in the Ministry at that time tomorrow. Even Kingsley is used to him staying late for cases, the way he did on the nights both the assassin and Lady Honeywell found him.

It might be the most useful late night he’s had in a long time.

*

“What the fuck,” Hermione says, pushing her hair out of her eyes as she reads the golden parchment.

Harry grins. “You should swear more often,” he says, leaning back in his chair at Ron and Hermione’s dining room table and ignoring the chiding way Hermione glares at him around the corner of the letter. So what if the chair is balancing on the very tips of its back legs and the only things keeping him upright are his own toes hooked under the edge of the table? He’s never tipped over yet. “It makes this impressive kind of homicidal look come into your eye, did you know?”

“I had some inkling,” Hermione says, and then presses her lips firmly together and shakes her head. “Harry. Listen to me.”

“I am. I always listen when you start swearing.”

“I think this might be a trap.”

“ _Really_?”

“No, I don’t mean a trap to use you or try to take advantage of you. I mean a simple ambush to kill you. What if Parkinson sent this?”

“Well, for one thing, I really doubt she could afford the gold.”

Hermione shakes the letter at him as if she’s about to sharpen an axe and try to chop off his head, and Harry relents. “I’m always aware of that, too. But for one thing, I don’t think I’ll have to deal with those ambushes for a while. The Sun Chamber became aware of just how powerful I am the other day. Even Parkinson would try to think of a sneaker plan than that.”

“She might be too homicidal to.”

“Well, notice I said _try._ ” Harry raises his hands when Hermione glares at him. “Honestly, Hermione, what do you want me to do? I can’t take bodyguards, they’d be suspicious and maybe figure out that I’d been fooling them. And I don’t know who they are yet, so I don’t know if they’d be good enough at wards and charm detection to notice someone following me. And snarling in rage at these people hasn’t got me anywhere. I might as well keep an open mind and swear and laugh.”

Hermione’s sigh comes from somewhere in the region of her toes. “All right, I can see your point. But—Ron could follow under your Invisibility Cloak?”

“You _know_ what the Cloak is doing right now.”

Hermione sits back with what is honestly almost a pout. “Everything we planned ahead of time seems to be getting in the way now.”

Harry shrugs and stands up to place a hand on her shoulder. “That’s the way politics is. One reason you could never convince me to run for Minister.”

“And afterwards?” Hermione gives him a serious look as he moves towards her fireplace.

“Afterwards, what?”

“If they want you to be a leader?”

Harry snorts softly. “They’re going to be busy with other things than idolizing me, Hermione.” He pauses. “That’s actually an advantage I never thought about before. If they’re this busy getting angry at me, then they won’t idolize me because they’ll have a better idea of what a ruthless bastard I am.”

Hermione sighs and reaches out to hold his wrist. “I wish something could have been done before it got to this point. That we could have figured out something that would preserve your innocence.”

“It’s a _good_ thing that my innocence is gone,” Harry tells her, and means it. “My blindness to things like the Sun Chamber meant I was getting frustrated at the wrong people. I thought all the Wizengamot members were idiots, but I couldn’t figure out _why_. Now I know they’re either beholden to pure-blood tradition by people who didn’t even want to reveal their existence as a body, or their decisions are just meditated by a smaller population of idiots. The whole Wizengamot doesn’t actually vote together, and I was overlooking the dissenters in my frustration.’

“I didn’t mean just about the Sun Chamber. And I meant—”

“That I would be more willing to be a leader when we destroy the current government if someone had got to me earlier?”

Hermione nods firmly, but her face is red. Harry knows why. It _does_ sound at the moment like she’s one of those people who think he should spend his life in service to the wizarding world just because of the bloody scar on his forehead.

But Harry knows Hermione’s intentions the way he can never know the true intentions of people like that. He only smiles at her. “I would be a terrible leader, in the end. Poor impulse control, insisting on some people paying the penalty because of how long they’d been on the run from Aurors, probably recommending execution for everyone with the Dark Mark if I’d been made Minister or king or whatever early enough—”

“You wouldn’t do that now. And _poor impulse control_ —Harry James Potter.” Hermione actually stands up and puts her hands on her hips, something she usually leaves to Molly. “Who set up this world-spanning, world-shaking plan?”

“We all did.”

Hermione pauses, then sinks back into her chair. “That’s right,” she says unsteadily, a moment before she breaks out in giggles. “ _Damn_. It’s hard to argue with you.”

“That means I’m doing something right.” Harry touches her hair and walks through the Floo, getting ready for another useless day at the Ministry.

Then he smiles. Well, not useless if he can find a chance to get Weston, that Auror who spoke up at the meeting with Kingsley, alone and talk to her.

*

“You have to know I have no interest in dating the Chosen One.”

Harry snorts and manages to keep from spurting his soup across the room. “You thought that was what I wanted, and you still accepted a lunch invitation with me?”

Weston nods and sips calmly from her own soup. She refuses to use the spoon, instead holding the bowl like a huge cup. Harry doesn’t know if it’s just personal eccentricity or a “fuck you” to pure-blood manners, but it’s a good sign. “It’s a nice lunch. I could eat it and you would still have to pay for it.”

Harry shakes his head and subtly casts a spell he’s perfected around the table. It’s a variant on Snape’s _Muffliato_ , but this one will also chime at Harry if anyone tries to break it or comes near enough to overhear a normal conversation. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to talk about whether you’re serious in your attempts to make people see that Muggleborns are worth something.”

Weston catches on quickly. She lowers her bowl and leans forwards. “You’re with them?”

“Providing some of the money for them, yeah. And of course I have a stake in house-elf freedom.”

“I heard about the one who died for you during the war.” Weston studies him intently for a long moment. Harry’s pleased. The ones who leap too quickly to conclusions can still be of use in things like staged protests, but it’s no use bringing them deeper into planning. “What exactly is your ultimate goal?”

“To tear down the Ministry. Get rid of all of it.”

Weston suddenly has a hard-eyed look that Harry didn’t think he would see her wear. “And what? Put yourself in charge after that?”

Harry laughs hard enough that he’s glad he doesn’t have soup in his mouth. “Do I _seem_ like someone who wants to be in charge?”

“No. But a lot of people who are don’t.”

“Believe me, that’s the last thing I want. People already demand too much of me, because they think that someone who can kill one Dark Lord can kill corruption, or something. And now that the Sun Chamber’s conferred these ridiculous Lordships on me, it’s worse. They’re always wanting me to obey the rules while being convinced that my blood status means I can’t.”

Weston eats a little more soup before she says, “All right. But then what comes after the Ministry?”

“Why should I care?”

“You _live_ in the wizarding world.”

“Sure, but the wizarding world is more than the Ministry. As best as I can see, the Ministry hardly does anything anymore. Every positive action they take has to be bound by all these rules, and they can’t take it for months. And what positive actions are there, actually? We don’t get sent after half the reports of Dark activity, because they take place at some pure-blood manor. _Obliviating_ Muggles happens at the scene, most of the time. The Obliviators are mostly independent of the Ministry now, anyway. It would be better if the Ministry _didn’t_ run Azkaban and run prejudiced trials in favor of who people are related to and cut off all access to the Department of Mysteries from the plebeians outside it. I can’t see anything the Ministry does that we can’t replace.”

Weston is silent and thoughtful through more than half the rest of the meal. Then she says, “You think people would step in to fill the gap?”

“Of course. Natural leaders and some people who have specific goals in mind.” Harry smiles as he thinks of Hermione and her books.

“But there’s the question of taxes and where they’d get the money to run the specific projects.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. It’s not a question most of their recruits asked, but some did, and that means he has the paperwork with him. He knew Weston was smart. He takes the sheaf of parchment out of his robe pocket, watched attentively all the while by Weston, and lays it down on the table. “Take a look at this.”

Weston reaches out and drags it across the table to her. Harry watches her face as she reads. It gets paler and paler, and she finally swallows noisily and pushes it back to him. “That’s true?”

“As true as I can find, and as recent as the first half of this year.” Harry nods and finishes up the last of his fish. The restaurant _does_ do food well. “I doubt it’s changed in the few months since.”

“If this is true,” Weston whispers, as though they aren’t behind silencing spells already, “then most of the Ministry’s income comes from _bribes_.”

“Exactly. And our wages are being paid out of them.” Harry shakes his head. “The older records are clear. Taxes were collected then, and even under pure-blood Ministers, the corruption was minimal. But now most taxes aren’t being collected at all. The vast majority of Muggleborns go back to the Muggle world to live, and a lot of half-bloods have moved abroad since the war. So the pure-bloods are the only ones with a lot of taxable money, but they don’t _want_ to tax the precious heirs of Magic’s essence—”

Weston snorts. Harry grins at her. “No, that’s really what they call themselves. So they let the pure-bloods ‘pay their taxes’ whenever they want, in the amounts they determine. And someone intelligent—I haven’t been able to identify them yet—makes sure the money is spread around enough that Ministry flunkies like us get paid on time. Probably because they know there would be a revolt without regular wages.”

“We have to do something.” Weston raps her fingers, with a musical sound, on some of the cutlery. “Why haven’t you made this public?”

Harry laughs harshly. “Aside from the fact that the _Daily Prophet_ has a record of painting me as a mentally unstable liar whenever I say something the administration doesn’t want to hear? The only reason I got away with revealing the truth about the Sun Chamber is that Skeeter didn’t know about it, either, and was eager to. So I managed to make it seem as if I was telling the truth for the good of the wizarding world. I’ll be arrested if I spread this.”

“On what charges?”

“Sedition. Fomenting disorder. All of the charges they’re trying to get my allies on when they protest.” Harry folds his arms and stares at Weston. “They’ll put me straight in Azkaban, and I’m more vulnerable to the Dementors than most people. I can’t make any changes from inside a prison cell.”

“I thought—they don’t use Dementors at Azkaban anymore—”

“Most of the time, no. But when a particularly eloquent criminal or one with a lot of popular support goes there? They do. They did it last year for the Randolph fellow, the one who almost managed to make people care about Squibs’ rights. He was a gibbering wreck by the end of the month.”

“You know that how?”

“I went and saw him.”

“Despite being more affected by Dementors than most people.”

Harry simply nods. He’s waiting for the conclusion it seems that Weston is working herself towards, but he honestly doesn’t know, at the moment, what it will be.

Weston reaches it on her own. She tosses her head back a little and looks him straight in the eye and announces, “I want in.”

Harry smiles. “Good. Then this is what you can do…”


	14. Who Am Crownless Now

Midnight sees Harry waiting patiently in the Atrium, trailing his hand in the water of the fountain. He doesn’t glance at the statue. It’ll only irritate him.

Now and then a witch or wizard walks past. Their eyes dart towards him and then away. Harry watches them in interest. He thinks they may be distractions, there to make sure that his meeting with the group’s emissary doesn’t stand out, and there are enough passersby that he thinks this particular conspiracy must be wider spread than he believed.

“Lord Potter.”

The voice is low and comes from the left. Harry bows his head a little as he catches sight of a long nose under a drooping hooded cloak. “Sender of the golden letter,” he says, and waits until he sees a nod. “Are we to speak here? Or somewhere else?”

“Somewhere else, of course. Walk with me.”

The voice is slightly deep, but otherwise under a charm, Harry knows, to keep it from sounding familiar. From the way the emissary’s body balances as they walk through the Atrium and towards one of the alcoves that hold the fireplaces, though, he’s fairly sure she’s a woman.

“There are many people who are waiting to welcome you,” she murmurs, as she reaches into her cloak and pulls out a handful of Floo powder. “I will go before you, to reassure you that we mean no harm. The address is _King’s Palace._ ”

Harry looks up at the ceiling, as if absorbed in thoughtful silence, because otherwise he’ll snort so hard that he’ll probably blow the Floo powder out of the woman’s hand.

She doesn’t seem to notice, but then many of these people never do, in Harry’s experience. She does call out “King’s Palace!” in a low voice as she steps into the fire, so at least he’s pretty sure that part isn’t a trap.

For a moment, Harry weighs whether he wants to follow. He thought she would lead him to some secluded corner of the Ministry, not an entirely different place.

But then he shrugs. No matter how powerful this particular conspiracy thinks he is, he can be ninety percent sure that they’re still underestimating him. In practice, everyone has been, even criminals who’ve faced him several times, unless they’re Ron and Hermione.

He casts the powder in, speaks the words without breaking out in laughter—which is a real accomplishment--and then whirls out in the middle of a room that’s high and decorated in crimson and gold. At least it looks as if the crimson comes from the carpet and nodding bunches of roses in delicate porcelain vases, and the gold from cloth of gold in tapestries, not actual walls encrusted with the stuff. Harry glances around, taking notice of the ornamental pillars and the ones which aren’t ornamental, and the different decorations that enemies can throw.

“Lord Potter.”

This particular person has an unhooded face, but because they’re bowing in front of him, Harry can’t see it at first. He raises an eyebrow when she stands. “Lady Shafiq.”

“I hope you will forgive me for the necessary deception I must maintain in the Sun Chamber,” she says, and her hands wring together for a minute before she follows Harry’s gaze, grimaces a little, and stills them. “There is nothing I can do as long as I have to watch my back so closely, but I _do_ support you. I go along with plans that might endanger you only in hope of a better tomorrow.”

“And you think I might bring this better tomorrow?” Harry moves his hand casually to the back of his neck. He concentrates all his power in his fingers, for a spell that he mastered windlessly a long time ago but hasn’t cast often lately. _Inveniam veritatem_ , he mutters in his mind, focusing all his will on the words.

Unseen by Shafiq—he hopes—his fingers clench on the back of his neck and scratch as if at a hard itch, embedding the magic into the skin. At least, that’s what will happen if the spell works the way it’s supposed to.

“Of course. I think you are the only one powerful enough to make a king.”

The words are echoed a second later by a loud buzz in Harry’s ears, as if someone has stirred up a horsefly. He smiles a little as Shafiq takes his arm and escorts him into the next room, and she can assume it’s for her if she wants.

 _Lie._ The spell that lets him hear lies seems to be functioning as it should.

Of course, Harry can’t be absolutely sure what she’s lying about. It could be his power, or it could be that she thinks someone else would make a better king, or that she doesn’t intend to make him a king at all. But not everyone here will make statements as ambiguous as her initial one, and that will let Harry figure more things out.

*

The room that Shafiq leads him into is a smaller copy of the one that he and his guide Flooed into. This one has delicate carvings on the stone walls instead of tapestries, though, and more sturdy pillars and fewer ornamental ones.

And it has a mirror embedded in the wall nearest the huge, roaring fireplace. Harry takes one look at it and feels the powerful, Dark enchantment moving in the back of it. This is like the Mirror of Erised, but probably worse. He averts his eyes from it.

“Lord Potter! What a joy to see you!”

This is a tall, florid man with a beaming face that Harry struggles to recognize. He manages to get away with bowing his head and murmuring something incomprehensible and appropriate, though. He honestly can’t remember if this man is part of the Sun Chamber and just one of the quieter Lords, or if he’s met him at some Ministry function.

Luckily, Shafiq says, “Don’t be so exaggerated, Roland,” and that sparks Harry’s memory. Roland Tessanon, “head” of one of those families that claims relation of some sort to pure-bloods but doesn’t sit in the Sun Chamber. It was at the Ministry that Harry met him, arguing fervently against more rights for house-elves and werewolves.

Harry makes sure the dislike is out of his eyes when he straightens. And if Tessanon assumes his smile is at the welcome and not at the fantasies of killing the bastard that play through Harry’s head…again, he can assume that all he wants.

“Lord Potter knows that I’m sincere in my welcome.” Tessanon leans towards him and beams confidingly again. “We both want the Ministry to go down in a cloud of dust, don’t we?”

“We do,” says Harry, and it’s honest. So is Tessanon, since Harry’s spell isn’t buzzing at him. “But I don’t see how you can do that by making me king.”

“Of course you don’t! Not yet! But we’re going to tell you tonight!”

 _Lie_. They’ll be telling him something, all right, but doubtless keeping their own secrets. Harry smiles back as politely as he can and accompanies them over to the large table that stretches along one wall. It’s laden with huge plates of almost every kind of food that Harry can recognize, bar the ones with obvious Muggle influences. There are delicate wedges carved from different-smelling cheese, roast venison and peacock and wild boar and quail, tottering ice sculptures with sauce of some kind poured on them, bread swimming in golden butter and warm brown honey, and drinks of all kinds. Harry’s sorry that it’s not the sort of gathering where he can trust himself with Firewhisky.

“Do eat, Lord Potter.” Tessanon picks up a plate and presses it into his hand. “This is in your honor.”

That much is true, although they’re probably trying to impress him by pointing out that they _do_ have the money to pull off what they’re planning. Harry gives both Shafiq and Tessanon polite smiles and places a few delicate slices of meat and cheese on his plate.

Tessanon laughs. “A picky eater?”

“Oh, no,” Harry says. “Just polite. Not everyone is here yet, are they?”

“No, but they’re waiting for us in another room,” Shafiq says. “They all have their plates already.”

That is also true, apparently. _Amazing_. Harry allows himself to choose of the bread and the pudding with a more generous hand, since those foods tend to show the effects of poisonous potions more obviously. It helps him to focus on the food if he’s thinking about the ways they might try to control him and _not_ how incredibly wasteful all this spending was. The things he and Hermione could have bought, the jobs they could have given Muggleborns and paid for…

Well, in the end the money of this group won’t be enough to save them.

Finally, when they obviously accept that Harry isn’t going to touch any of the drinks but a glass goblet of water, Shafiq and Tessanon urge him through the carved double doors into a shining, overflowing hall. Harry halts, staring at the crowded tables of people standing up to applaud him.

They include some of the people from the Sun Chamber, more Aurors than he thought possible, some wizards he’s fairly sure are Unspeakables without their masks, young witches barely out of Hogwarts, reporters, and a few shopkeepers from Diagon Alley. Harry bows cautiously to them. He thought it would just be people from the Sun Chamber and those related to them. That they’ve got people who don’t make as much money and have less reason to believe in blood purity following them…

 _Of course, that doesn’t mean they have Muggleborns._ Harry cocks his head at Shafiq as she ushers him towards the gathering. “Is there anyone here like me? With a Muggleborn parent or Muggle grandparent?”

Shafiq’s mouth tightens, and she says, “I’m sure there must be someone.”

 _Lie._ That makes Harry feel a little better. It is possible for poorer people to be as bigoted as the rich, after all, but it would be beyond surprising, into alarming, if they could have brought themselves to ignore their prejudice and start working with Muggleborns and half-bloods.

Harry shakes hands, and learns names, and smiles, and declaims, and pretends, and dances around the truth. Most of the people who speak to him have no intention of doing that.

“I’m so glad, Lord Potter.”

“I can’t wait until you’re king! It’s time that our world had a centralized government who isn’t the Ministry!”

“I know you had a Mu—a Muggleborn for a mother, but she must have done right to produce someone so strong! And you look a lot like a pure-blood Potter, anyway!”

Dismayingly, those are all true.

“I look forward to what you can do for pure-bloods under your reign. I’m sure that most of us have the same goals.”

“I’m willing to teach you everything I know about navigating the dangerous political waters, you know.”

“A strong king is what we need right now.”

More reassuringly, those are all lies.

Harry is finally able to take his place and eat. He casts with his wand under the table, and a few times, with the twitch of his fingers and a lash of wandless magic to make sure that the food is all clean. There’s one piece of venison that isn’t, although it appears to contain only a small amount of a potion related to the Calming Draught that is supposed to make someone relax and listen to “reasonable” suggestions. Harry still contrives to knock the venison to the floor in such a way that it looks like an accident.

“Do excuse me,” says Shafiq, whose elbow Harry has managed to jostle without appearing to jostle it, so that it was apparently her and not him who knocked the venison to the floor. “I am clumsy when I’m excited.”

 _Lie_. Harry sits back with a bland smile. “Perhaps I could learn more about what everyone wants to accomplish here?”

“Of course,” Shafiq says, and turns around and nods. Most of the chattering people fall silent at once, and fix Harry with shining, staring eyes. Harry sips once more from his water glass before he puts it down. So Shafiq is some sort of leader here. That’s worth knowing.

“Lord Potter wishes to know what we want from him.” Shafiq turns her head slowly, so slowly that she looks like it’s balanced on gears. “Should we begin with the goals, or the factions, or individually?”

 _Goals. Factions._ Harry sips some more water again after all, to mask the grin that wants to blossom across his face. So they’re already plotting against each other. Also good to know, so that he doesn’t have to worry about them presenting a united front against him.

No one speaks up at first, and Shafiq is just opening her mouth when Tessanon jumps in. “Well, if no one else is brave enough, _I_ can say it.” He beams at Harry. “I was a Gryffindor at Hogwarts, you know.”

 _Once upon a time,_ Harry thinks dryly. But he makes his expression bland and polite as he nods to Tessanon. There are Gryffindors everywhere, in all sorts of disgraceful positions. Harry started getting used to it when he found out about Pettigrew.

“So.” Tessanon smooths his hands down the front of his robe. “We want complete separation from Muggles. Including Muggleborns.”

 _True enough,_ Harry thinks when he hears no buzz. He props his chin on his fist and smiles a little at Tessanon. “And what makes you think that I would want to help you with that, when my mother was Muggleborn?”

“You have to admit she was one in a million, though, Lord Potter,” says Tessanon as earnestly as though they’re friends. “Most of them aren’t as powerful and don’t have children like you. They might even go back to the Muggle world and breed with people without magic. We can’t have _that_.”

“You think them having children with Muggles weakens the Statute of Secrecy?” Harry asks. Tessanon’s words have been true so far. He wants to know what else they’ll reveal if he keeps asking questions.

“Not just that,” Shafiq says, and Harry turns to find her eyes shining with sincerity. “It weakens the bloodlines. It creates children who will probably go back to the Muggle world more often, since both their sets of grandparents are there. It creates _Squibs_.”

Harry’s spell tells him she really believes that, although of course it’s not true. Harry only nods. “And what else do you want?”

“We want the rule of the pure and the strong,” Shafiq says. She’s smiling more cautiously now, but there’s still that gleam in her eyes, and Harry isn’t about to forget what he saw. “You’re one of the strong, Lord Potter. Surely you can understand why we might desire the end of the weak’s domination?”

Harry smiles at her. “Give me an example,” he murmurs, “of the weak.”

It’s not Shafiq who responds, but a tall man with iron-hard features that Harry thinks is an unmasked Unspeakable. “The Ministry flunkies who do everything that the Minister tells them to,” he growls. “The ones who collect the bribes and don’t distribute them. You know the truth about the Ministry, Lord Potter, how it’s riddled with corruption. It’s time it fell.”

“And what do you want to replace it with?”

“The pure and the strong!”

That shout comes from several voices. Harry pretends to probe his ears, and is rewarded with anxious laughter. Yes, they really want him to come and do something for them. He conceals a sigh.

“You’re willing to accept Muggleborns among the strong if they’re powerful in magic?” he asks. He wants to know if he’s working with pure-blood bigotry of the usual kind or not.

That gets several different kinds of traded glances, and then Shafiq sniffs. “No. None of them have the right kind of blood. Half-bloods are as low as we’re willing to go. Or _perhaps_ Muggleborns who have married other Muggleborns and lived in the wizarding world for generations. But there aren’t many of those,” she adds in satisfaction, as if driving a whole group of people away from your world is something to be proud of.

Harry looks at her with eyes that he hopes aren’t too malicious, since he _does_ want to encourage them to confide in him. “What will happen to the Muggleborns who already know about the wizarding world and live here?”

“Hopefully they can be encouraged to see the truth and leave for their own good.”

“But if not?”

“Then mass Memory Charms. And if not…” Shafiq shrugs. “They can fall with the Ministry.” She leans forwards confidingly. “I understand that you like and work with them, Lord Potter. But remember that they were among the ones who would have sent you out to defeat a Dark Lord all by yourself.”

 _And the pure-bloods were the ones behind the white masks, which is somehow better._ But Shafiq’s words haven’t been lies for a while now. Harry just has one more question to ask.

“Do you think I can be a good king?”

“You are magically powerful and recognized. That’s what we need in a king.”

 _Lie._ Good. They want to use him as a figurehead, just as Harry suspected. And after the last bit about Muggleborns, he’s hardly going to have any fear of what he needs to do to them.

He salutes Shafiq with his water glass, and she relaxes. “Then please tell me more.”

 _While I make_ you _fall, along with the Ministry._


	15. And Without Name

“That’s going to make it harder, in some ways.”

“That there are so many of them, and they’ve found a leader to follow in Shafiq?” Harry stretches his arms out, flexing and shaking them to the ends of his fingers. He was up late last night, making sure that he has current, correct notes in several formats in case someone tries to _Obliviate_ him. He also made a few copies of Pensieve memories and stored them. Then he had to be up early for another largely useless Auror meeting. “That’s the only thing that should make it harder.”

“I don’t like it,” Ron says, his mouth drawn down.

“I know.” Harry grins at his best friend, who’s sitting on the other side of Harry’s desk. “But you don’t like our plan with the Deathly Hallows either, or the magic Hermione is researching, or that meeting I set up a month ago—”

“I just think there’s too many plates in the air. Too many spinning pieces. I don’t know if you can keep track of it all and keep it from crashing.”

Harry does look earnestly at Ron, because Ron often has that gut intuition for matters of strategy that lets him look at a chessboard and see who’s going to win or lose three moves in. But when Ron thinks and then shakes his head, Harry decides that he’s going to go ahead with their plan for right now. Ron’s intuition needs to have something specific to focus on before he can make predictions.

“I suppose I have to go to the next bloody meeting,” Ron complains. “Because I was the one who saw them the first time.”

“Yes, you have to,” Harry says. “Sorry, mate, that’s the way it works. We’re barely getting them to agree as it is. They don’t think like humans. We don’t dare disrupt the routine right now.”

Ron’s eyes flash a little as he stands up. “And you _are_ going to pull them into the net when all is said and done?” he asks, voice low, even though someone listening in would be hard-pressed to tell what they were talking about anyway. “Make sure that they’re punished for everything they did?”

“Yes. They’re too dangerous to leave untethered, which is what would happen when the Ministry fell. That’s the reason I wanted the Resurrection Stone to be part of this in the first place, remember?”

“Good,” Ron says, and his face is dark as he strides away. Harry can hardly blame him. _They_ attacked George a few years ago in Diagon Alley, for no reason except that he looked like someone they’d been ordered to hunt. Yes, they’re going to be destroyed along with so much other filth that the Ministry commits.

Harry shakes his head and turns back to his paperwork. He has to give as convincing a performance as he can, at least for right now, that he’s just another Auror with the unexpected “luck” of holding double Lordships.

*

The loud bang outside his office door startles Harry just as he’s getting ready to sign a final report and go to lunch.

Harry finds himself turning before he consciously thinks about it and leaping behind the desk. The edge of it bruises his ribs, but he’s down and hidden when the door flies open and a cloud of green gaseous vapors storms the room.

Harry casts a modification of the Bubble-Head Charm on himself, a tight, glinting, silvery mask that fits over his mouth and nose and filters out every harmful particle in the air he breathes. He grimaces when he feels his skin prickle with pain, and quickly casts more versions of it on his hands and over the rest of his head. Then he crawls under the desk and flips up the front of it, a handy modification that Hermione taught him how to make.

Someone is screaming, steadily, in pain, out in the corridor. Harry’s face wrinkles into a snarl. So this isn’t just an unusually bold assassination attempt on _him_. These fuckers are going after other people, or don’t care when they get caught in the gas.

They’ll pay.

Harry tenses his legs underneath him and shoots out through the door, straight into the middle of the dissipating gas. There are two witches with Bubble-Head Charms on there, and they don’t wear Auror robes or any other garb that Harry’s ever seen in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. They whip their wands at him and incant a wordless curse that tumbles through the air like a steel-edged disk as it comes at him.

 _Aren’t you cute._ This is another spell that could explode and do more damage to people around him than just Harry. Harry supposes he should be happy his enemies are taking him seriously now, but this isn’t what he _meant._

He casts the proper countercurse, and the disk spins apart and goes flying away in different, clanging directions. The witches stare with their mouths open for a second, which gives Harry enough time to cast a version of the Tripping Jinx that spills one from her feet and makes the other one hop to avoid it.

The second one hops straight into a spell from an Auror behind her. She cries out as her wand arm goes numb. Harry Summons her wand before she can think of anything else interesting to do with it and then rolls out of the way as the one on the floor tries the Head-Splitting Curse.

His fellow Auror is binding the first one, but the one on the ground is as quick as a snake. It must have only been the surprise that made her fall to the Tripping Jinx. And she’ll be back on her feet any second.

 _You’ll pay,_ Harry thinks, and focuses his desire for vengeance on her, since the Auror has the other one helpless and it’ll look bad to assail a helpless prisoner.

His spell is silent, a good thing, since it’s one he developed himself and he doesn’t particularly want to see it taken and used against him. Sparks ignite at the woman’s elbows, knees, shoulders, and several other places, and send pain through every joint. She screams and screams and drops her wand. Harry kicks it to one of the other Aurors who’s appeared out of an office.

The gas is dissipating. Harry takes off his charms slowly. “Everyone all right?” he asks, staring around.

“Everyone except Auror Londer’s son,” says a pale-faced trainee who keeps his wand wavering back and forth between the downed assassins as if he doesn’t know which one is more dangerous. Harry makes a note to tell him later: the unbound one. “He was visiting and he got a full lungful of the gas. She already took him to St. Mungo’s.” The trainee swallows loudly. “But I don’t know what the gas is.”

The Healers might. Harry doesn’t care. They used a deadly spell _in the Ministry_ , and not _just on him._ Harry flicks his wand.

The second witch, who’s just been taken prisoner by the Aurors, flinches and wails. The nearest Auror stares at her in consternation. When he casts a diagnostic spell, he shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with her.”

“Maybe she’s just thinking about all the consequences she’ll reap for this behavior,” Harry suggests, waiting until the woman looks at him. He smiles then, and she shrinks away from him.

He cast a spell that made it feel like her elbow was being broken. No marks, no actual breaks in the bone.

But this time, that’s not the worst he’s going to do.

*

“Their names are Hebe Woodwind and Julia Anderson.”

Harry shakes his head a little as he sits down on the chair in front of Kingsley’s desk. “I don’t recognize either of those names.”

“Apparently they stayed out of trouble during the war. Stayed neutral, really, and convinced the Death Eaters they weren’t worth bothering with and our side that they’d been loyal all along when the war ended.” Kingsley sighs and studies the notes on the parchment in front of him. “But it turns out that they have plenty of Dark Arts books in their Ministry offices. We raided them immediately after they attacked, of course.”

 _Nothing wrong with plenty of Dark Arts books,_ Harry could say openly if Kingsley was really on his side. It’s using the magic irresponsibly that’s the end. But he swallows it back and says, “And their motivation?”

“They were paid a great deal of money to take you down. It had to be public, it had to be painful, and it had to be as flashy as possible. The gas they used originated from a potion. It’s meant to make the person who swallows any of it cough their lungs up.” Kingsley hesitates. “They both confessed under Veritaserum that it was Pansy Parkinson who hired them.”

Harry sighs. He honestly can’t just keep killing the Sun Chamber members, unless all of them are stupid enough to challenge him to duels. Besides, he wants at least _some_ of them alive when their world falls apart, so they can see how shattered everything has become.

“What about Auror Londer’s son?”

Kingsley avoids his eyes. Harry leans slowly forwards. The time is coming when he’ll have to shed the “ordinary Auror” persona anyway. “What happened to him?” he repeats, his voice weighted and his face set in a grimace.

“He died.”

Harry nods a little. “Where did they get the potion? Did one of them brew it, or did they get it from Parkinson, or what?”

Kingsley seems relieved that he’s left the topic of Auror Londer’s son. He doesn’t realize just how these topics are connected in Harry’s mind, and if all goes well, he won’t for a while. “They got the recipe from Parkinson, apparently, and brewed it themselves. I think that Anderson had slightly more of a hand in it.”

Harry nods again. “Can we track the ingredients sellers in Knockturn Alley, do you think?”

Kingsley blinks. “You want everyone with a slight link to this arrested.”

“Yes. They _killed someone_ , Kingsley. Of course I take this seriously. I imagine Auror Londer will, as well, when she hears of it.”

Actually, what Harry is thinking, with the part of him that never stops calculating, is that this is probably the part where Auror Londer joins his side. He’s felt her out in the past, and she’s been polite but unreceptive. Just as Harry managed to convey to her, without outright saying so, that he felt the problems in the Ministry were too severe to resolve, she managed to convey back that she disagreed with him but respected his right to his opinion. Which is why she never reported the feeling-out attempts to Kingsley or anyone else.

Now…

Yes, it’s sick that Harry is running the odds like that in his head. But not as sick as the fact that Parkinson sent these women after him, in public, with a dangerous potion that produced a gas capable of killing many. Woodwind and Anderson didn’t even release it directly into his office, but into the corridor outside.

“That might be difficult.”

“Tracking down the people who sold them the ingredients? Or pulling in anyone slightly related to the crime?”

“The latter.” Kingsley stares at him with weary eyes. “I mourn the young man’s death as much as you do, Harry, but we can’t allow ourselves to react impulsively. We have to think about whether the Ministry’s resources can stand an investigation like this right now, and whether—”

“Who’s putting pressure on you in the Sun Chamber?”

Kingsley catches his breath. Then he says, “No one.”

Harry looks him straight in the eye. It’s true that he hasn’t developed the instinctive ability to sense lies that a master Legilimens has, but it’s hard for a lot of people to lie when he’s staring straight at them. It has something to do with his reputation combined with the color of his eyes, but fuck him if he understands exactly how it works. He’ll go with it, though. “I’m also a Lord, and twice over. So is Neville. We can fight for you if you tell us who the enemy is.”

Kingsley looks in the opposite direction after a struggle. “No one in the Sun Chamber.”

“Someone outside it? Who?”

“I’m not telling you that someone is putting pressure on me at all, Harry. What’s _true_ is that the Ministry doesn’t have enough resources to spend a lot of time or money tracking down all the people connected to this case.”

Harry draws himself back slowly and makes sure to speak with all the heaviness he thinks this deserves in his voice. “One of your Aurors just lost a _son_ , and you’re telling her that you don’t have enough resources to investigate it.”

“I’m not telling her. I’m telling you.”

“So you’re going to tell her something different? Or you’re going to tell her the same thing but dress it up in pretty words?’

Kingsley slams a hand on his desk and pulls himself to his feet with it. “I am not discussing this any further with you, Auror Potter. And if I see you speaking to Auror Londer, I am going to discipline you. It is _not_ your place to join this investigation. You know that Aurors are always banned from investigations involving themselves.”

 _Ah, yes, they only tried to kill me, after all, that makes me so unimportant._ Harry smiles with all his teeth on display, and nods a little, and lets himself out of the office, walking fast. He doesn’t know exactly where Woodwind and Anderson are being held, in some level of St. Mungo’s or in the Ministry, and getting hold of them wouldn’t do much except sate his desire for vengeance anyway. It sounds like they’ve been questioned under Veritaserum.

But he does know where _one_ person is. And she’s not going to like it when he’s finished with her.

*

Harry has to sink a lot of magic into breaking down the Parkinson wards, but not a lot of skill. They’re big, crude defensive wards that make him wonder if perhaps Atlas Parkinson was the wardmaker of his family and Pansy doesn’t have the skill to replicate his.

Well, even if that’s true, it serves him well now. He steps into the entrance hall of Parkinson’s house, which is high enough to have balconies running around it, and calls up with a mad grin, “Honey, I’m home.”

A red curse is his answer, flying from one of the balconies. Harry nods and dodges. He hoped that sarcasm would get her to reveal herself, and it’s worked.

He casts a Bouncing Charm on himself, hops, and leaps up into the air with the momentum from bouncing off the floor. In a second, he’s on the banister of the first floor balcony, and then he bounces off that and onto the level where Parkinson is. She stands with her back pressed against the railing, shaking, staring at him.

Harry cancels the Bouncing Charm and smiles at her. “Hello, Parkinson.”

She tries to curse him again, but Harry focuses a pulse of wandless magic, will—and fury—on her wand arm. She screams as her humerus breaks and her arm sags. Harry strolls casually over to her and takes her wand while she writhes in pain, then casts a series of charms that stabilizes the bone and binds it to her side.

He does nothing about the pain. She brought it on herself.

“Listen to me,” he says. “You aren’t going to die.”

That makes Parkinson fall silent and blink big eyes at him. “Do you—you don’t want to leave the Parkinson family without a Lady?” she asks.

That’s actually true in part, since it would make Hermione’s task harder than it needs to be, but Harry isn’t about to say so. “No,” he says, and she lowers her head. “But I want you alive to pay for what you did. And torturing you endlessly, while it _sounds_ like fun, gets boring after a while. No, Parkinson, you’re going to help me track down the people who sold you those Potions ingredients, and you’re going to be my ally in the Sun Chamber.”

“Your ally in doing _what_?”

Harry grins. It’s kind of interesting that he can explain the truth to someone who so emphatically isn’t on their side. “Bringing down the Ministry. Burning the roots of the pure-blood world that you so value.”

For a minute, Parkinson’s face is as pale as the carved bars of the railing behind her. Then she shakes her head and forces a laugh. “You wouldn’t _actually_ do that, Potter. You don’t want to expose our world to the Muggles or lose your power that comes from your Lordships.”

“I don’t give a fuck about my Lordships,” Harry says casually, and watches Parkinson react to the words with no small amount of satisfaction. “And this won’t expose our world to Muggles. It’ll just get rid of some of the irritations that infect us.”

“And you’ll be dictator afterwards, I suppose? Or the figurehead king that Shafiq and the others want?”

“You know about that, then? Of course you do. No. I’m going to destroy things and then let people rebuild.”

“But your people.”

“I’m going to make sure that a lot of the people who despise Muggleborns are removed from power, so yes, some of them will be Muggleborns I know or who are my friends. One of them will probably be Hermione. But I have no ambitions to rule, Parkinson. Only to destroy.”

Maybe it’s the words, maybe his tone of voice, but she shudders with her eyes fixed on him, and seems to finally believe him. She licks her lips and whispers, “You have to understand that I’ll never willingly help you.”

“That’s all right.”

Harry slices his palm with a simple gesture. The blood runs down his hand until he collects it with another gesture, and then it flows into the air and heads straight towards Parkinson. By the time she’s realized what he intends, it’s already flown into her gaping mouth, and Harry casts the charm that Healers use to make unconscious people swallow. Parkinson stares at him with her eyes widening still further.

“You—you _can’t_.”

“My blood flows in your veins, my will is your will,” Harry says clearly. The words to activate the blood-based Imperius, the undetectable one, are simple, because they take an enormous amount of power that most wizards can’t spare. He feels the magic surge through him, and then nearly knock him down as it flies into Parkinson.

She blinks and then looks at him with eyes that hold only a slight trace of the glaze they would if he was controlling her with the traditional Imperius Curse.

“Come on, then. We have a lot to plan.” Harry takes out his quill. “Including you telling me a list of the ingredients for that potion, and who sells them in Knockturn Alley.”


	16. Some Orient Dawn

“I want to know what’s going on.”

Auror Winnifred Londer’s voice is low, and she’s staring into his eyes as if she can compel him to answer just with that. Harry bows his head slightly in recognition. She lost a child. He has to honor her, especially since she wants to fight instead of giving up, and she was smart enough to remember that he’s identified himself as the leader of the only effective resistance.

“Come in, please, Auror Londer.”

“I don’t want a cup of tea or anything like that.” Londer paces slowly across his drawing room as Harry closes the door behind her. “I just want revenge.”

“You have to understand that it’ll be a long time in coming if you work with me. There’s something that can happen right away that might be satisfying, but if the only thing that will soothe your thirst is blood…”

“I can put up with other things to get the ultimate revenge. That’s the kind of vengeance Corin would have wanted me to take. What kind of immediate satisfaction do you offer?”

“Humiliation of the one who sent those assassins after me and didn’t care who they killed to get to me. She was also the one who told them how to brew the potion that created the gas. Interested?”

Londer is a petite woman with brown hair and placid blue eyes that Harry has hardly ever seen angry. They’re blazing now. “Is she a pure-blood? One of the haughty ones? One who’s in that Sun Chamber you joined?”

“Yes. Pansy Parkinson.”

For a moment, he does wonder if he should have told the Auror her name. Londer’s hand tightens on her wand to the point that it spasms and the wand almost spins out of her grasp. Then Londer relaxes and leans against his large mantel. “Yes, for a chance to see her finally crawling and sobbing on the ground, I can put up with slow revenge.”

“Good. This is what I’d like you to do, and here’s what I’d like to explain to you first…”

*

“I am ashamed of my actions!”

There are enough people turning to stare at Parkinson as she stands and declaims in the middle of Diagon Alley that Harry doesn’t think they need to worry about the news spreading. Already there are some people who have the wide eyes and busy mouths of potential gossips. Harry makes sure to stay quiet back in his hiding place in Knockturn Alley. He’ll intervene in a minute.

Next to him, Londer sighs. “It’s a beginning.”

“More will come.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I doubted that.”

Harry shuts up then, and makes a gesture for Londer to do the same, as a woman with two children behind her approaches Parkinson. “Um, what do you mean, Lady Parkinson?” she asks. She licks her lips a second later and looks around for support that isn’t coming.

“I mean that I did something stupid in pursuit of a private grudge.” Parkinson tosses her hair back. She looks almost perfect, Harry thinks as he watches her wide, quivering eyes and lips. He’s the only one who knows the true cause of the tears at the corners of her eyes. “It meant the death of a young wizard.”

“ _Really_ , Lady Parkinson. Don’t you want to come away and lie down?”

“Oh, don’t spoil the fun, Mariah. Tell us what you did then, dear.”

Londer’s hand tightens on Harry’s wrist. “Are you sure that she’s going to do _exactly_ what you tell her?”

“Blood-based Imperius,” Harry reminds her, and then Parkinson is bending down until she gets almost in the face of the teenage witch who asked the question.

“I hired two assassins who promised they could do the work of killing Harry Potter. I told them to make the death messy and public. So they went after him at the Ministry, using a potion that I also told them how to make. The potion created a highly poisonous gas, and it managed to scar the lungs of a young wizard, Corin Londer, until he died.”

“Hey, I knew Corin!”

Parkinson goes on as though ignoring the crowd’s gathering restlessness. “I’m ashamed of that. I let my grudge against a fellow member of the Sun Chamber consume me, instead of resorting to a duel the way I should have, if I was so afraid of what would happen to me when I accused him. I’m here to atone for my decisions. To give up everything that makes me someone who could commit such a horrible crime.” For an instant, she raises a hand, and makes as if to rip at her hair, but Harry thinks his will at her, and makes her put it down. Too-dramatic gestures aren’t part of this. “Judge me as you will. A public crime deserves a public punishment.”

There are a few people melting off the back of the crowd. Harry watches them in interest. He isn’t sure if they’re going to report to the Sun Chamber or if they’re simply embarrassed to be witnessing a public spectacle like this, but either way, it’s doing the right kind of work. They’ll spread word when people ask them what they’re embarrassed about even if they aren’t spies.

“What’s the punishment going to be, then?”

“I am going to make amends from my own personal vault,” Parkinson answers, and waves her wand. The piles of Galleons that melt into existence around her were actually suspended from an invisible net above her head, but the appearance makes the crowd gasp anyway. “Take as much as you want.”

Auror Londer grabs Harry’s arm and holds as the crowd begins to move cautiously forwards, some of them muttering about legends of fairy gold and the like. “How did you do that?”

“Brought out some Galleons and put them in a net above her head under the Disillusionment Charm.”

“But—there’s nothing there to connect a net to.”

Harry passes his wand over Auror Londer’s eyes for a second, granting her the ability to see the Disillusioned poles that stand over Parkinson holding the net. Then he reverses the charm, and Londer shakes her head slowly as she watches eager hands snatching the coins. And maybe even more as she watches the small quiver to Parkinson’s lips and the corners of her eyes, where her real self struggles against Harry’s control.

“Are you going to get in trouble for this?”

“How should I get in trouble for a decision that _Lady_ Parkinson made of her own free will?”

Londer looks from him to Parkinson and back a few times, then sighs out gustily. “It is satisfying. Not enough payment for Corin’s death, but more satisfying than I dreamed.”

“I know it’s not. It’ll go on, though.” Harry ignores the way she stares at him. What he speaks is the truth, and it isn’t his fault if she doesn’t believe him. He watches as people finally believe Parkinson is giving money away and practically stumble over themselves to scoop up the coins and drop them into their pockets.

“What is the _meaning_ of this.”

Harry is a bit impressed. He knows how hard it is to make a statement like that without the question mark. He watches as Shafiq steps forwards from the edge of the crowd, her robes billowing around her in a way that would make Snape proud.

“My lady.” Parkinson executes the precise bow that she would give to someone older and senior to her in the Sun Chamber. Harry loves the blood-based Imperius. He can still have Parkinson make some of her natural gestures and thus convince everyone even more that she’s acting under her own power. “I am ashamed—”

“Yes, I heard that, and you should be, Lady Parkinson. How does that translate into giving your wealth away?”

“It was the wealth I used to hire my assassins and contribute to the potion that, in turn, meant the death of a young Auror. Children are precious to their parents. The only thing I can do is give up what’s most precious to me in return, to show that I mean it.”

Shafiq stares at Parkinson with her brow furrowed. Harry sees the neat motion of her wand, hears the murmur that accompanies it. She’s trying a powerful _Finite_ that ought to end any Imperius Curse influencing Parkinson’s actions. Her face almost droops when Parkinson continues to stare back at her with shining, earnest eyes.

Well, shining ones, anyway. And if some of the shine comes from tears, who’s going to know?

“A Lady should not be acting like this,” Shafiq says, and takes Parkinson’s arm to lead her away. Harry beams a little. Really, he couldn’t have planned this better if Shafiq was somehow really allied to him.

Parkinson plants her feet. “But why not, Lady Shafiq? We care about other people! We’re the noble ones! If we do something like this by accident, how are we going to live with ourselves? We _can’t_!”

The crowd is murmuring in interest. Shafiq is squinting as if someone started talking to her in a mixture of Latin and English. “Surely you do not think the right thing to do is debase yourself in front of a crowd.”

“I think the right thing to do is make up for what I’ve done. And the murder was public, so this has to be public, too.”

Shafiq stares. Then she says, “The Aurors might arrest you for this.”

“They said something about not having any resources to investigate the mystery.” Parkinson spreads her arms and widens her eyes as if she embraces the angry murmurs rising around her. “I think I’ll be all right.”

Londer tenses. Harry knows what’s going to happen, and grabs her arm before she can move, expertly turning to the side and using the weight to spin her back towards the building they’re crouching next to. “You go out there and confront her, and what do you think will happen?” he whispers harshly. “You anger Shafiq and you might alert her to what’s really going on.”

“Why do you think that?” Londer hasn’t stopped struggling.

“Shafiq isn’t stupid, and she’s probably going to think that it’s no coincidence that you’re here. Listen, do you _want_ revenge for your son or not?”

That at least makes Londer stop struggling, but the expression on her face is foreboding. Harry ignores that and faces the scene where Shafiq is reaching out her hand for Parkinson’s shoulder, certainly to Apparate with her.

“I think you need a lie-down and a cool drink, Pansy,” Shafiq murmurs. “Then you can see how silly it is to say that you had anything to do with the boy’s unfortunate death.”

Harry makes Parkinson move back a little and shake her head. “This is part of the process of atonement. Haven’t you ever felt anything that you needed to atone for, Lady Shafiq?”

The expression on Shafiq’s face gives the answer as clearly as words. But she steps away and Apparates without Parkinson, who turns back to the humiliating speech that Harry is inventing as he goes.

Londer breathes harshly next to him, but she’s calmed down when Harry glances at her. “Yes, all right. It’s better for her to literally pay for Corin’s death. But—if she’s not going to be arrested, then what is the end result of all this going to be?”

Harry smiles and tilts his head as he hears a crack of Apparition. “The solution to that problem is on her way in.”

Weston swaggers up with a slow stride, and shakes her head when Parkinson stretches out appealing arms to her. “Hello there, _Lady._ Someone said that you were standing in public and proclaiming your complicity in this murder, but I honestly didn’t believe it until I saw it for myself.”

“Who are you?”

“An Auror with the Ministry who couldn’t commit any resources to the investigation, but did think she should do something when you showed up and just started talking in the middle of Diagon Alley. Come on, Lady.”

Parkinson stares and blinks while Weston conjures a rope and loops it around her wrists. Harry releases her a little from his control as they get ready to leave the Alley, and Parkinson abruptly writhes and shouts, “Wait!”

“What?”

“You can’t—you can’t arrest me. I freely confessed. That means that you can’t arrest me.”

“I’m fascinated by this example of logic, but not seeing the point at the moment,” Weston says in a polite voice. “Would you like to tell me more? Perhaps in a holding cell at the Ministry, where you can also explain to some other people?”

“Yes—I mean no!”

But it’s too late. Weston Disapparates with Parkinson. Harry chuckles to himself. Parkinson is going to help him more caged than free, honestly. She can confess all the information that he wants her to pass on to the Ministry officials that way, and pay for Corin Londer’s death, and also stay out of the way, so he doesn’t have to “accidentally” kill her. She also has already told him everything useful.

“There’s going to be more.”

Harry nods to Londer and leads her towards the Apparition point they used to come to Diagon Alley. People are still gathering up Galleons behind them. Harry wishes them joy of it. It will serve, a little, to repay some of what Parkinson has taken from them, and what her family has done in the past. “Of course there is. That was only the first installment.”

“Auror Potter…”

Harry glances at Londer. Her eyes are alight in a way that he’s only seen in the mirror.

“It’s going to be a pleasure to work with you.”

*

Harry Apparates to where Shafiq told him to meet her, a clearing surrounded by black, dead trees on the outskirts of her estate. He’s alert for a trap, of course, but he’s also pleased. He went to check on the Elder Wand and its position in one of the complicated spells they’re doing, and everything is proceeding exactly according to plan.

“You’ve probably heard the bad news already.”

Harry turns around with a faint smile as Shafiq walks towards him. “Someone who was supportive of the plan to make me a king was arrested?”

“No—as far as I know, Lady Parkinson probably doesn’t support you after the way you killed her father.” Shafiq stops and pulls at her robe collar. “But it means that they might start arresting other Lords and Ladies soon.”

 _I hope they do._ Harry holds it back and only tilts his head. “Why? Is anyone else going to do something as stupid as she did?”

“It wasn’t stupid.”

“To do it and then admit it in public? Of course it was.”

Shafiq actually wilts a little under his stare, the first time Harry can remember something like that happening. “Oh—very well. Yes, it was a little stupid. I still don’t know what she was thinking.”

“Then no one else has anything to worry about,” Harry says, and shrugs. “Is there something you wanted to talk to me about besides Parkinson’s arrest?”

“Yes.” Shafiq sets her feet and holds his gaze in a way that tells Harry he’s not going to like what comes next. Then again, he doesn’t like most of what she says. “The others don’t seem to have considered this, but I have. Your Mu—Muggleborn friend. You’re going to have to give her up when you become king.”

It’s to the point that it almost amuses Harry to see people deriding Hermione, because it means that her disguise as a fairly ordinary witch is working. He shakes his head. “But why? She’s powerful. She could be a help.”

“But she’s very _democratic_ ,” Shafiq says, pronouncing that word as if it’s an embarrassing venereal disease. “There’s no way that she’ll understand what you’re doing.”

“Hermione always grasps what I’m doing.”

“I know that perhaps she’s offered you her understanding in the past, Lord Potter, but with all due respect, the world we’re creating has no place for Muggleborns. Why would she consent to being pushed out of the world she loves?”

“She wouldn’t.”

Shafiq relaxes. “Then you’ll get onto the project of disabusing her of her part in this?”

“But why would I do that? Why not keep silent until it’s irreversible, and only _then_ tell her? Because she would become an opponent now, when our project is weak. We might as well let her work for me until the point comes when we have to naturally part our ways.”

Shafiq’s lips part. She gives a slow nod, as if her face is imprisoned in treacle tart. “That makes a great deal of sense, Lord Potter.”

_I know it does. It’s the lie Hermione encouraged me to use._

“If you think she would ignore rumors about you trying to become a king…”

“She’s ignored more ridiculous rumors than that.” _Though not many of them. The one where I was dating a frog probably counts, though._

“Very well, Lord Potter.” Shafiq bows her head. “I shall allow myself to be guided by my future king. I think you are smarter and more devious than anyone has guessed.”

There’s a tone in her voice that’s not entirely approval. Harry grins at her. “I know that it’s shocking to contemplate, but I do have power. And I _want_ power, you know. I welcomed my ascension to the Sun Chamber. It’ll allow me to accomplish my goals more easily.”

“I find myself resting easier in my mind, Lord Potter. I see we understand each other.”

“We do, Lady.”

_For you, the understanding only goes one way, but that’s all right. Let it do that. Just let me be there to see the look on your face when you realize the truth._


	17. The House of Fame

“I can hardly believe that Lady Parkinson confessed to some of those things.”

“I know. Isn’t it incredible? And this way, Auror Londer and her son get justice, and none of us have to worry about whether the Ministry has the resources to conduct an actual investigation!”

Kingsley stares at Harry with narrowed eyes, but Harry only gives him back large innocent ones. Kingsley doesn’t have Legilimency talent; there’s no way on earth Harry will submit to Veritaserum; and Aurors Londer and Weston aren’t about to betray a cause that will get them justice for the sake of a frightened, timid man. Kingsley can suspect all he likes. He has no proof.

“I think you almost have a grudge against Lords and Ladies.”

“Would I have accepted a place in the Sun Chamber if I had a _real_ grudge against them, Kingsley? Think about it, and be honest.”

Kingsley shifts around to look out the enchanted window on the wall of his office, which shows rain and more rain. Harry has never met anyone as fond of pretending there’s terrible weather outside. “No. People you have grudges against tend to disappear instead.”

Harry lets the words hang there for a second, and then smiles. “I don’t have grudges against them. I do think they could do better with running the wizarding world; they seem so concerned about it, but they won’t act right. But I think they have the _potential_ to do better. Otherwise, I’d just get rid of them at once.”

_Instead of over time, the way I’m doing._

Kingsley looks at him gravely. “Careful, Harry. Someone could decide you have a grudge after all and they should investigate you for murder.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I killed Atlas Parkinson in fair combat. In fact, I offered him more chances than those two idiots Parkinson hired did me or Corin Londer. Who am I supposed to have murdered?”

Because there’s no one, of course, Kingsley can only go back to looking serious. Or constipated. At this point in time, Harry’s having trouble telling the difference. “I only warn you what people are _going_ to say.”

“Oh, no, not gossip! I’ve never dealt with that before in my life! How _ever_ will I cope?”

Kingsley scowls again. Then he says, “It seems you’ve been a little distracted from regular Auror work with the Lords and Ladies and the Sun Chamber, Harry. I’d like to put you back on it.”

“Of course. What would you like me to do?”

“There’s a group that may be connected to those rebels who protested in Diagon Alley and broke into this department. The problem is, we can’t trace the connection yet. It dies every time we find a lead. There’s burned evidence, or we raid and no one’s there, or the person we thought had a link to this group is clean. We think maybe you can find something.”

“Of course.” Harry’s a bit amused; he’s never been that good at subtle investigative work. “What’s the group’s name?”

Kingsley leans towards him and lowers his voice. “The Kingmakers.”

Harry blinks. He blinks again. He hopes that Kingsley takes the expression on his face for shock instead of the terrible, terrible laughter that wants to bubble forth instead. He manages to swallow. “R-really. Why do they call themselves that?”

“No idea, but we’ve found the name on the only scraps of parchment in the fireplaces that hadn’t been burned.”

“You can’t use spells to reconstruct the rest of the parchments?”

Kingsley snorts. “Of course not. They took precautions against that. And sometimes the parchments were so burned that it wouldn’t have worked anyway.”

Harry just nods and takes out a piece of parchment and a quill and an inkwell. This mix of sloppiness and subtlety fits Shafiq’s group, because of course it bloody does. “All right. How long have you been investigating them?”

As Kingsley starts to give him the details, Harry reflects on the fact that he’s glad Kingsley hasn’t actually, so far, believed him when he makes honest proclamations about his hatred of Lordships and the Ministry’s attitude towards Muggleborns. This is such a beautiful chance to play both sides against the other that he can’t resist.

*

“What do you think, Harry?”

Harry knows what Neville wants him to check. He folds his arms and directs his magic with his wand off to one side, which for whatever reason is more effective this way. He lifts his power and splashes it casually against the keystone in the arch of Neville’s front door.

A deep hum comes back. Harry grins and opens his eyes. “I think it sounds good. We don’t have all the magical signatures of the Sun Chamber yet, but it shouldn’t be long. It’s almost full.”

“It seems so easy for you to check that. I wish I was more like you.”

Harry reaches out and clasps his friend’s shoulder, shaking him until Neville reluctantly meets his eyes. “Don’t wish for that,” Harry tells him quietly, fiercely. “You have Hannah, and you love her, and you have your passion for your work. I might have the more powerful magic, but the only thing I have a passion for is tearing our world apart, and I can’t remember loving someone the way you love Hannah. If anything, I want to trade places with _you_.”

“Good thing for the future that you can’t,” Neville mutters, and straightens his robes out when Harry releases him. They’re standing in front of his house, in the gleaming garden that’s filled with blue flowers and sweet-smelling versions of venomous plants and other examples of his art. “We need you.”

“And then when all this is done, no one will ever need Harry Potter again.”

“You keep speaking like that. I think—mate, I’m worried that you’re going to kill yourself.”

“Don’t worry, Neville. That won’t happen unless I die of overwork. I just mean I can stop being Harry Potter, Hero, when this is done with, because he won’t exist. No one is ever going to think of me as a hero again when I pull down the Ministry and the Sun Chamber.”

“I will.”

Harry grins at him and punches him in the shoulder. “Go give that soppy look to Hannah, you great berk. I’ve got shit to do.” And he spins on his heel and Apparates before Neville can call him back.

There are still people who would try to talk him out of this, like Neville and Rolf and even Ron sometimes. And plenty of other people who would join them, like Ginny and Molly, if they had the slightest idea what he was doing. It doesn’t matter. Harry’s not going to spend enough time around them for it to matter.

And he’s been honest with Neville. In a little while, everyone is going to curse his name, not worship it.

Harry can hardly wait.

*

“What else are you going to do to get revenge for my son?”

“Auror Londer. I didn’t hear you come in.” Harry’s hand is curled around his wand, but he manages to convince the fingers to uncurl. He nearly cursed her. She ought to know better than to step into another Auror’s office when their back is to the door. “And I believe I told you something about what we’re going to do for Corin. It’ll move a little more slowly from now on, though. Too many dramatic reveals like Parkinson pulled in Diagon Alley, and someone will start suspecting the truth.”

“I want revenge _now_.”

Harry studies Londer as she sits down in the chair across from him, her fingers clenched so that it looks as though her knuckles are about to break through her skin. “That’s understandable, but it won’t happen right now.”

“Why not?”

“I already told you why.”

“If you think that I’m just going to wait around while you do the exciting jobs…”

Harry is beginning to regret, a little, that he let compassion overrule good sense when he accepted Auror Londer into his movement. On the other hand, it’s not like he could know that would happen. “There is one thing you could do. But it would require patience and subtlety, and those don’t seem to be traits you have right now.”

Auror Londer draws in her breath and holds it. Then she meets Harry’s eyes and relaxes her fists with what looks like intense concentration. “I want to avenge Corin, but I won’t let my emotions get in the way. What job?”

“Kingsley wants me to investigate a group of people who are giving him trouble and burning their evidence well enough to hide their tracks,” Harry says. “I know exactly who they are already, but I’m going to use my knowledge to get some more information from them. It would be helpful if you would do the investigation for the Ministry, and pass along what you do find. That will make it look as if I’m doing what Kingsley asked while actually avoiding tasks that would take my time from more important duties.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“The group is called the Kingmakers. Kingsley doesn’t know it, but their purpose is to make someone king of the wizarding world, and they’ve chosen me.”

Auror Londer stares at him long enough that Harry thinks she might disbelieve him, or she might get up and storm out. Then she shakes her head. “And you’re willing to go along with and support their nonsense?”

“Of course not. A lot of them are from the Sun Chamber, although not allied with Parkinson. But I have to seem like I’m going along with them _and_ with Kingsley, in case someone figures me out and moves before I’m ready. Can you pacify Kingsley while I do the dance with them?”

“I repeat, what’s in it for me?”

“Learning more about just how corrupt the Ministry is. Being able to put aside some of your broken faith once you see how far they’ve already gone.”

Auror Londer is silent for long enough that again Harry thinks she’ll leave. Casually, he grips his wand. He can’t let her do that, as much as he likes her. There are the lives of his friends at stake, and the futures of longer-standing allies.

“All right,” she says abruptly. “But you’ll need to pass along any notes that Shacklebolt already gave you for the case, so I don’t look like an idiot when I prepare these reports.”

Harry nods and reaches for the folder under his desk. He’s listening hard enough to hear what she mutters under her breath a second later.

“How much more ammunition do I need to despise the Ministry?”

 _You’ll get whatever you need,_ Harry thinks, and sits up, and hands the folder to her with a minute shake of his head. He just hopes that she’s ready for what it contains.

*

Harry pauses outside the small house where Shafiq and Tessanon and a few other members of the Kingmakers have asked him to meet them, and closes his eyes. It takes him a bit, but he manages to summon up a memory of a case years ago when he honestly thought he was going to lose Ron. He’ll need to look sick and shaken when he enters this house, and reality won’t let him do it.

When he feels ready, he reaches out and knocks hard on the door.

The wards splutter and curl around his wrist and fingers, but Harry only stands waiting, tapping his foot, not showing how ready he is to lash out and destroy them. And sure enough, the wards fall back a second later, and Harry strides in.

The house is small and dark, but torches and fires in fireplaces flame to life when they realize who it is. Harry can see multiple faces he doesn’t know staring at him. He ignores them and focuses on Shafiq.

“Did you really have to be so obvious?” he asks her, with a slight sneer.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The Ministry knows that your group is called the Kingmakers, and they’ve put _me_ on your trail.” Harry rolls his eyes. “I thought no one was supposed to know about this and it was hush-hush? _That_ obviously didn’t work.”

Shafiq gapes at him. But Tessanon shakes his head and chuckles a little, sounding almost as though he’s proud of Harry.

“At least you made sure that _you_ were the Auror on the case, eh, Lord Potter?” he asks, and winks. “That’s a bit of cleverness. You can make sure that we aren’t caught _and_ that false reports filter back to the Ministry.”

Harry steps back and looks as though he hasn’t thought of that. “But it’s putting my job at risk.”

“Compared to the glory that is to come, who cares? This is the best thing that could have happened. Better you than someone outside Auror who might actually pursue the case with some kind of bothersome tenacity.”

Harry pretends to consider it, and then bows his neck. “You’re probably right, sir. Thank you.”

“No need to call me sir at all, Lord Potter! Please. Roland.”

“Roland,” Harry sighs and nods. “I simply can’t get used to the fact that I’ll be a king in a few months’ time! I want to change things, but I never realized it would be this simple!”

He catches glimpses of the contempt on the watchers’ faces from the corner of his eye, and almost snorts. Why do they think things will be so much easier than they look? Why do they despise him?

_For the same reason I despise them. We’re coming from such different philosophies and estimates of each other’s abilities…_

He is determined to understand them, though, and not to underestimate them. He turns back to Shafiq and Tessanon. “Besides the investigation that I’ve been put on, what news can you give me of the Kingmakers?”

Shafiq looks around the room, but no one returns her glance with a conspiring one. Harry thinks she’s just trying to make sure that she’s the center of attention before she says something. When everyone _is_ looking, she smoothes her hand down her robes again, and gives a small smile. “You will be glad to know that we have found an artifact that can advance our cause, Lord Potter.”

“I’m very excited! What is it?”

Again he gets some glances of contempt. He should probably sit there like a proper pure-blood and try to balance castles on his upper lip, apparently.

“It is,” Shafiq says, and lowers her voice, “the Muggleborn Mirror. It will trap the magic and memories of all Muggleborns, and make it possible for us to exile them back to the Muggle world where they belong.”

Harry doesn’t immediately panic. He’s heard of artifacts like this before, although not this particular one, and he knows very well that they never work the way the people involved think. “How exciting! Where did you find it?”

“Deep in a vault that an ally of mine willed to me, but which I’d had no time to explore before now.” Shafiq’s voice is mild, but her eyes shine. “This is an artifact collected long ago by the de Fleur family. The family lived outside Britain for some time, but they always believed in the purity of blood and wanted to see something accomplished for pure-bloods in their original homeland. I believe it will work.”

Harry smiles and nods and listens as Shafiq goes on to talk about the Muggleborn Mirror. The theory is sound: that the Mirror will distinguish between magical and non-magical parents and capture the memories of the wizarding world from anyone with non-magical parents who looks into it. Then it will bind their magic and make them ready to be exiled into the Muggle world.

The thing is, the theory is _always_ sound with these pretentious pretend ways of distinguishing between Muggleborns and other people. Harry knows this won’t work, for the simple fact that blood purity theory is as wrong as the sun rising in the north.

And many Muggleborns come from Squib ancestors, distant or not. How is the mirror going to distinguish between Squib parents and Muggle parents? It can’t. Harry knows.

He does smile and nod again when Shafiq glances at him. “I still want to ask that my friend Hermione be spared.”

“She can have a year or two of grace.” Shafiq takes a step back towards the large fireplace, a warning note creeping into her voice. “But just because she’s useful and your friend doesn’t mean that she can be spared, Lord Potter. In the end, she’s a Muggleborn like all the rest of them. Untrustworthy. Unworthy of the gift of magic that she carries. You have to understand that.”

Harry smiles dreamily at Shafiq. He’s dreaming of her head exploding, not the time when he’s king, but it’s not like she’ll understand that. “Thank you. A year or two of grace is all I ask for. I know that I have to make sacrifices to become king…”

He continues in that vein, the kind of thing he can spin in his sleep after making so many speeches to the press and the Ministry. In the meantime, he’s watching faces, cataloguing mannerisms that will let him identify those he doesn’t know if they meet again under masks or other circumstances. And his veins pound with dangerous excitement, driven by his ultimate hatred of them all.

They are the ones unworthy of their gift of magic, or anything else. They are the ones who will either lose everything or die.

_Why not both at once?_

And that, Harry thinks as he accepts Shafiq’s congratulations and the toasts of the others, is also an excellent option.


	18. Sat in a Marble Circle

“Sometimes I question whether anyone has the right to do what you’re doing.”

“That’s a point,” Harry says, and knocks back the Firewhisky in his glass. Luna asked him to come over tonight, but it turns out it’s because she wanted Rolf to have company for dinner while she does something secret and important in the lab. Harry doesn’t mind, exactly, but he keeps remembering how Luna’s mother died in an accident in her lab.

“One you don’t care about.”

“Not exactly, no.” Harry puts his glass down and considers Rolf thoughtfully across the table and the remains of the excellent baked salmon. Rolf is a good cook when he tries. “I trust you to be able to know about it. But I’m not asking you to be part of the plan.”

“Did you ever consider how many good aspects the wizarding world has? Aspects that you’re going to ruin for everyone?”

“Like what?”

“Hogwarts! And how many lessons people learn there, and the fun the children have. And the magical creatures they study, and the way the Wizengamot can change laws, and the passion people have for the truth, and—”

“I was in more danger at Hogwarts than I’ve sometimes been as an Auror. It was full of people who had the tendency to idolize me at one moment and lash out at me the next. Some of the professors were pretty piss-poor. Some still are. The magical creatures have next to no rights. The Wizengamot considers blood purity before any kind of justice. And the _truth_? Rolf, most of the wizarding world didn’t want to believe Voldemort was back, or I was sane. They don’t care about that.”

“You’re just condemning everybody without giving them the chance to speak.”

“I spent nine years trying to reform the Ministry.” One thing Harry learned long ago is that lowering his voice is actually more effective than raising it. Actually, maybe Snape was the one who taught him that lesson. Kind of disturbing to think about. “Ron and Hermione tried to help me. Luna worked on creature laws. Neville did what he could when we needed a war hero’s voice or the voice of someone whose ancestors spent a lot of time on the Wizengamot. None of it worked. Those prejudices are too deeply-ingrained.”

“The answer still can’t be to burn it all down.”

“Why not?”

As Harry thought, Rolf doesn’t have a real answer. He retreats into baffled scowls at his glass and mutters that sound like, “Not a solution...”

“The solution we come up with will be,” Harry says, and smiles a little. He can’t wait to see what Rolf says when the Elder Wand goes to work. He will be one of the people not affected by the spell, so he should see the difference.

Yes, Rolf can know about some of it. Harry never intended to tell him everything.

“I have it.”

Harry and Rolf both look up as Luna comes bursting out of the lab where she’s been working. Harry feels his lips quiver as he sees the singed hair clustering around her brow, but he still stands up and pulls out a chair at the table for her.

“You have what?”

Luna lifts her hand grandly and spills a few cloudy orbs on the table. Harry leans over to study them curiously. They look like marbles, honestly, with blue and grey swirls in them.

“Do be careful. They might interact with the Nargles around your head.”

Harry pulls back obediently, though he’s looking at Luna out of the corner of his eye. She slumps back in the chair and shakes her head. “They didn’t want to come to me,” she murmured. “The Wooloons tried to hold them back. They like the world the way it is.” She nods to Harry. “I think the Sun Chamber has a lot of Wooloons in it.”

“Or at least a lot of loons,” Harry says dryly, and smiles at her to let her know that he’s not trying to refer to her old nickname. “What are they, Luna?”

“They can cool things down. When they burn.” Luna sighs when Harry only blinks at her, and ignores the way that Rolf is casting charms on her singed hair to make it stop being singed. “They can put out fires.”

Harry understands at once, and his eyes widen. “Do you really think you can make enough?”

“Yes.”

“If Luna says she can do something, she can do it. Not that I know what you’re talking about at the moment…”

Rolf sounds anxious. Harry ignores him and leans over to pick up Luna’s hand and gently kiss the back of it. “You’re brilliant.”

“Sometimes I think so. And I don’t listen to the Nargles when they try to tell me otherwise.” Luna’s gaze sharpens, and she touches the side of his face. “There’s going to be nothing to cool down the flames that start burning around _you_ , Harry. Always remember where the exits are. And take the mask with you. It’ll let you breathe through the smoke.”

“I’ll remember,” Harry says solemnly, even though he hasn’t the least idea what she means by the mask. Luna is a lot more involved in their political fight than he ever thought she would be, as someone who likes to stay out of it, but her every thought still doesn’t have a one-to-one correspondence with reality.

“Good.” Luna leans back and yawns. “I would like some fresh roast beef in a salad and a lot of milk.”

Rolf immediately jumps up to provide that. Harry remains where he is, watching Luna through lazy eyes. She smiles solemnly back at him and reaches out to take his hand and turn it over.

“I never learned Divination.”

“Trust me, it’s a waste of bloody time.”

“Well, if the tower wasn’t so full of Jabbering Bloodlungs, maybe it wouldn’t be.” Luna traces a line down the middle of his hand and looks at him solemnly. “But I know this is called the life line. And I know that you’re doing things to endanger that line, Harry Potter. I don’t want you to get called out by the blood oranges.”

Harry smiles at her. “I know lots of people are going to call me out and call me _all sorts of things_ in a while. But I promise that I won’t deliberately put myself in danger. I’m doing it right now because it’s the best way I could find to make my mark on the wizarding world.”

“Just watch out for blood oranges. And blood apples.”

“Here’s your salad and milk, Luna.” Rolf rushes over with the bowl and the glass, and Luna smiles up at him as she takes them.

“Thank you. You’re as sweet as a Straight-horned Snorkack. They’re much nicer than the Crumple-Horned ones, you know.”

“I’ll watch out,” Harry says, at the same time as Rolf beams at Luna and leans down to kiss her forehead.

Luna keeps her eyes straight on him as she takes the first bite of mingled cut beef and lettuce. “Good.”

*

“I don’t think you understand the importance of what I’m saying.”

“I do.” Harry gives Shafiq a patient look. There are a few of Luna’s marbles in his hands, and he’s considering if he should leave some here, but so far the Kingmakers haven’t used the same meeting place twice in a row. It’s a bit useless to place them where the conspirators won’t come into contact with them. “And I’m saying that I can’t swear secrecy on the Muggleborn Mirror because Hermione would know I was keeping something from her and ferret it out.”

“Ferret it out. A good synonym, Lord Potter, with how close to the dirt Mudbloods are.”

Harry smiles some more, while inside his head he dreams of breaking Shafiq’s neck with a Blasting Curse.

“Well, if you can’t do it yet, then we’ll do it later.” Shafiq puts down the blood quill she was going to have him sign a contract with and turns to say something to a small man behind her. He bows and scurries off. “But I’m going to show you the mirror and we’ll see what you think. You _must_ understand the importance of this, Lord Potter. I wouldn’t show it to just anyone.”

 _Just anyone wouldn’t care._ Harry nods and follows her.

This particular manor house seems to be made of entirely of black stone, which makes some of the torches they pass cast strange reflections on the walls and floor. Harry watches small shadows pass them. The house has defensive spells on it, too, which he knows may make it hard to harm anyone the owner considers a guest.

Then again, he’s not at the point where he wants to harm all the Kingmakers yet.

“This is it.”

Shafiq parades him into a large room with a dais of smooth brown stone at the center. Harry blinks. It actually looks like smoothed river pebbles. But then he sees the ripples of color in the stone, and snorts. An entire dais built of agate. Of course.

The mirror stands in the middle of the dais, on a sketched blue pentagram that Harry thinks may be necessary to contain it. He glances at Shafiq for permission and then moves forwards to stand in front of it.

It’s taller than the Mirror of Erised, and has no similar inscription around the top or sides. In fact, the only decoration at all is a repeated motif of vines with eyes peering out from between them. There are hands, too, and some of the hands have wands. Harry wouldn’t think anything was threatening just from observing it.

Then he looks into the glass.

The vision that comes back at him is horrific. Wizards and witches are trampling on goblins and blowing the hearts out of house-elves’ chests. Other humans die in front of them too, mixed with broken-legged centaurs and flayed merpeople. It’s like the Fountain of Magical Brethren come to atrocious life.

“You like the thought of us at eternal war?” he asks Shafiq without his voice trembling, which honestly impresses him.

“It wouldn’t last long,” Shafiq says. “And besides, Lord Potter, the mirror shows something different to everyone. I saw only the aftermath of the war, with flowers blossoming among the cracked stones in Diagon Alley and pure-blood children free to explore the alley without having to halt and pay tribute to Mudbloods.”

Harry cocks his head without taking his eyes from the mirrors. “Are you one of those who believes that fewer pure-blood children are born because of the existence of Muggleborns?”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

_No._

But Harry holds his peace, and listens to the whole spiel as Shafiq spins it: Muggleborns somehow steal the magic of pure-bloods, and steal the souls of those who would be born otherwise, and turn healthy magical children into Squibs by claiming the wands that would have gone to them. Harry’s run into it before when arresting blood purity extremists. He supposes Shafiq only kept it quiet until now because she thought she would send him running otherwise.

He does say, when she’s finished, “You keep forgetting that my mother was a Muggleborn.”

“She was powerful, and she had you.”

_And that’s it, really. They would have trouble dealing with my mother if she was alive, but she’s dead, and that makes her a safe target._

None of it is a surprise, which the force of his own rage is. Harry breathes out carefully and faces the mirror again, extending a hand to touch it. The vision shimmers and vanishes at once, and there’s a silver ripple under the surface that chases his fingers.

“Don’t touch it for long, Lord Potter. We’re not entirely sure if it drains the magic of half-bloods or not.”

Harry lowers his hand and waits. The mirror goes back into placidity that resembles calm water. It still doesn’t reflect him and Shafiq or the room it’s in, though. It would be hard to mistake it for a normal glass.

“I’m a half-blood, but you want me to be your king?”

“You are a double Lord. That outweighs everything.”

Harry smiles and nods, and knows that Shafiq’s mind is still spinning across ways to get rid of him. It’s fine. His is doing the same thing in reverse.

He does go home when he leaves this particular manor and shower long enough to need a Warming Charm on the water, though. And he takes a Dreamless Sleep potion because he knows he’ll stay awake plotting ways to make them suffer, otherwise.

Magic was his salvation, the only reason he thinks he survived being a teenager. He would have died at the Dursleys’—mentally, probably not physically, but still. And Shafiq and people like her want to deny that to Muggleborns out of the insane belief that it will somehow let them have more children.

He might not use all the marbles Luna made after all. Burning is too good for them.

*

“I want you to come to dinner.”

Coming home to find Ginny’s face in his Floo isn’t a normal occurrence anymore. Harry leans back in his chair and studies her curiously. Her face is pale and set and determined, and she has one hand clenched down at her side, low enough out of the fire that he can’t see what she’s doing.

He hopes she knows better than to go for her wand, frankly. It would be disappointing if she was that much of an idiot.

“Why?”

“We need to discuss what you did to Simon.”

“Is he going to be there?”

“No.”

Harry nods. “All right. But if this is an ambush or trap of any kind, or if he’s there, I’ll turn around and walk right out the door. And I’ll never trust you again.”

Ginny blinks, and for a second her lips thin. Then she leans back and vanishes from the fire. Harry spends the moment tucking a few magical tricks from George’s shop into his sleeves and belt, and then he Flooes to Ginny’s house.

There’s no sound of Simon, or anyone but the two of them. Harry is vaguely surprised. He thought Ginny would have someone from her family to back her up.

Ginny folds her arms and gives him an unimpressed look. Harry nods to her. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I want you to stop punishing me for not having the same politics that you do.”

“How am I doing that?”

“Hurting my boyfriend. Upsetting my family.”

“I do that simply by existing. What do you want me to do, never talk about anything political again?”

Ginny glances away at the kitchen, which is cold and has no smells of food coming from it. Harry already guessed that he wouldn’t get any dinner. “I want to know why the world matters more to you than—other people.”

“Do you mean the whole of the wizarding world?” Because, honestly, no one has accused Harry of caring about the world in a while. When Ginny nods, he says, “Because there’s nothing but corruption all around me. People can be excused from crimes just based on their last name or who their grandfather fucked. Muggleborns still have people thinking of them as inferior based on outdated theories of magic. The Wizengamot doesn’t try cases, they try reputations. Kingsley would have let a fellow Auror’s son be murdered and do nothing about bringing the real criminal to justice because he’s so concerned about destabilization.”

“You’re trying to destroy the world I grew up in.”

“Yes, I am.”

“ _Why_?” Ginny spins around and faces him head-on. “I’m sorry that you didn’t grow up in it, too. I’m sorry it came too late! But that isn’t the fault of the rest of us. Who tried!”

“And what about now?” Harry asks softly, not taking his eyes from her face. But he’s aware of the hands that could reach for a wand, and the way she’s tensed as if she’s going to cross the distance between them any second. “You don’t think the way Muggleborns are treated is shameful? You _want_ to date someone who thinks Lords and Ladies are wonderful?”

“I never—I was called a blood traitor! Of course I don’t believe in blood purity!”

“But the way Muggleborns are treated doesn’t bother you?”

Ginny glances away, her face flushing. Harry watches her calmly. He doesn’t think she’s evil. He suspects that she feels like many other wizards and witches, that there’s nothing she can do and it would be stupid to protest and upend her life.

But she’s also not Muggleborn. She’s also not dated any Muggleborns or been close to them, beyond Hermione, as far as Harry knows.

That gives her much less of a right to protest what he does.

“You can stay out of it,” Harry says. “You don’t _have_ to participate. But then you don’t get to lecture me, either.”

“You could use your titles, though. You could reform everyone and make them think—”

She stops, because Harry’s laughing. He stops to wipe away a few tears and shakes his head. “I’ve tried to reform the Ministry for nine years,” he says. “It doesn’t work. I’m fed up.”

“You don’t have the right to destroy a world just because you’re fed up!”

“There’s no other cure.”

Harry waits, but it seems like Ginny doesn’t have anything to say or protest now, so he turns back to the Floo.

“Harry?”

He glances over his shoulder. Ginny has a stubborn, determined expression he hasn’t seen in years on her face.

“I _am_ going to stop you.”

“Feel that way if you want,” Harry says pleasantly. “Just don’t act on it.”

He disappears back through the flames before she can say anything.


	19. Where The Oldest Is As the Young

“I’ve certainly never heard of it. But from what you said about it, and the way that the mirror seems to react differently to different people, I think it probably is a warped version of the Mirror of Erised.”

Harry leans back on Ron and Hermione’s couch and looks up at the roses that drape across their ceiling. The pattern was just random lines a little while ago, but Hermione got bored with that. “But why would it be? It can’t be showing our greatest fear. It showed Shafiq something she _wants_.”

“I know. But what if it shows expectations instead? She really believes the pure-bloods will win the war. You know better than that. You think a war between wizards would result in ruins and destruction.”

“Now _that’s_ a hypothesis.”

Hermione blushes at the way Harry’s looking at her. “You know that I’m not a genius. You and Ron keep acting like that, and it builds me up to heights that aren’t good for me.”

“I don’t know why,” Harry says, and he bats his eyelashes at her. “You were the genius who saved our arses during the war.”

“And now we have a different kind of war, and we can’t fall into the trap of thinking it’s exactly like the last one,” Hermione replies, shaking off his admiration with an ease that Harry envies. He struggles to contain his own rage and bitterness. He would like to pretend that he can ignore someone looking at him and expecting him to solve all their problems. “No, Harry, listen. You’re sort of acting the way you did in the last war.”

“I have actual plans this time!”

“I know, but you’re thinking that your enemy is a monolith. You’re focusing on Shafiq and her Kingmakers, and before that it was Parkinson. The Death Eaters got in your way during the first war, and now the other members of the Sun Chamber and probably people you don’t even think about are going to hinder you.”

“Including Ginny.”

Hermione gasps. “She’s figured it all out?”

“Oh, I doubt it. She doesn’t know about the—fires we’re going to set, for instance. But she called me over to her house to tell me that she’s set against me and she’s going to oppose me and my actions.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her that she’d never dated Muggleborns or been close to any of them except you, so she didn’t understand.”

“She dated Dean Thomas!”

“Who isn’t Muggleborn.”

“Well, but he didn’t know that at the time.” Harry has to nod. And Dean didn’t exactly take the revelation of his wizarding father well, given that he walked away from Dean’s mum. “Harry, that was unfair. You know that she does care about this. About people like me. Just like Rolf does. But both of them disapprove of our methods, and they’re _allowed_ to disapprove. We have to allow them the freedom of their consciences, or we’re as bad as the Ministry we’re fighting to take down.”

“Rolf knows more than she does and _still_ hasn’t decided to act against us. If she gets in the way, then I’m going to—”

“Harry, don’t kill her. You know that Ron would never really forgive you, and you don’t _need_ to. She can be convinced to look elsewhere or start concentrating on something else so easily. Why do you insist on this?”

“I never planned to kill her. I think I might have to _Obliviate_ her if she does get close to the truth, though. If she starts digging…”

Hermione sighs and walks across the room to put her arms around Harry. “Leave Ginny to me, why don’t you? I’ll be the voice of reason and explain to her why things like Muggleborn rights matter to us so much, and why we aren’t going to get them if we just wait around for the current Ministry to enact them. Maybe we can persuade her back to our side.”

Harry only snorts. He thinks that _Ginny_ is the one who’s seeing everything as a monolith. He humiliated Simon in public, therefore he’s evil. And she’s far too dedicated to overlooking treatment of Muggleborns, because otherwise she would have to do something about it.

Ginny still has a conscience, but she’s got comfortable in the last few years, much like most of the Weasleys except Ron and George. They don’t want things to change because now they have what they want. Poor people are more likely to be revolutionaries, most of the time.

And Harry, because he doesn’t see any way to deal with this pile of shit except to burn it down.

“Just let me handle her. Go home and rest.”

Harry stands up and returns Hermione’s hug, then leaves her to work with the information he brought her on the Muggleborn Mirror. He knows Hermione worries. She thinks things might spiral out of control or the Elder Wand won’t perform the way they want it to. But she would never, ever turn on him and Ron the way Ginny is threatening to. She would have been honest about feeling like she couldn’t join them from the beginning.

Harry doesn’t understand why most wizards lack that honesty. Just say what you think, do what you want to do, and stop pretending that there’s some righteous purity of blood that will excuse the bigoted things.

It seems simple to _him_.

*

Harry wakes slowly, disoriented and confused. It feels as though someone has inserted a headache behind his eyes, or his scar, in a way he hasn’t felt since the war. For a moment, he wonders if he’s having one of his nightmares where Voldemort never died.

But then someone in the robes of the Sun Chamber steps in front of him, and he’s wide awake.

“I thought you’d be as careless as your wards implied, and I was right.” Draco Malfoy has his nose in the air. His face is flushed bright, and he has his father’s robes draped around his shoulders. “No protections in the wards against countercharms created by blood sacrifice. Sloppy, Potter, very sloppy.”

“Did your father die?” Harry asks in interest. The disorientation is wearing off now, and slight movements let him know that he’s bound by ropes.

“Are you _threatening_ my father?” Draco’s voice is lower and stronger than Harry thought it could be, and he has his wand clasped in his hand. It looks as though he’s going to duel Harry. Lying there bound in ropes isn’t the ideal position for it, Harry has to admit.

“No. It’s just that you’re wearing his Sun Chamber robes, and I thought you couldn’t do that until he was dead.”

Draco sneers and conjures a knife with a turn of his wrist. It looks practiced. Harry is going to remember that. “That shows how much you know about true noble custom, Potter. He yielded his place as proxy to me.”

He suddenly lunges forwards and drives the knife into Harry’s shoulder. Harry yelps. He’s of the mindset that you should show your enemies the pain they’re looking for. It’s much more likely to make them careless and smug and over-confident.

Draco laughs. “Not as tough as you like to think you are, are you?”

“It’s impossible to be as tough as I like to think I am.”

Draco twitches and stares at him, and Harry takes the chance to look around himself once. Yes, he’s still in his bedroom, and there’s a haze over the windows. His wards are broken; he can feel the ringing in the back of his head. And his wand is nowhere in sight, and there’s a green fire burning on the floor, on the very carpet, that’s he read about but never seen.

“You can’t control it, can you? Any more than Crabbe could control that Fiendfyre.”

“You want to be careful when speaking of the dead, Potter.” Draco draws his lips back from his teeth. He was more genuinely threatening before, when he wasn’t trying all that hard. “You want to be _very_ careful.”

Harry blinks at him. “All right,” he says, and nothing else. He knows that he’s not going to get sense out of Draco. He keeps an eye on the green fire, although he obligingly yelps when Draco drives the knife into his leg. The wounds are minor. Draco wants to see blood, but he also keeps flinching slightly before the blow lands, which defeats the purpose. Harry reckons that Voldemort and some of the other members of the Sun Chamber would have skinned him properly before now.

“ _Pay attention_ , Potter.”

Harry is. He’s paying attention to that fire, which is turning a darker green and starting to burn more than the carpet. It’s climbing up the curtains, for example, and he can hear the hissing of a dozen snakes inside the flames.

“What kind of blood sacrifice did you use?” he asks, as Draco draws back the knife for another strike.

Draco stares at him, then sneers. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yes, I would. Then I could know whether the fire is going to explode out of control any time soon.”

“Of course it won’t, Potter. And I used a Muggle. My father prepared her and killed her for me.”

Harry sighs. “Why do I know more about the Dark Arts then you do, Malfoy? You should realize that the person who casts this spell is the one who has to control the fire. And an essential part of the casting is the blood sacrifice. That means your father should really be the one who’s here controlling the flames, and you—”

He flinches back in the ropes a little as Draco aims the knife for his eyes. The cut doesn’t blind him, but it is a shallow one on his forehead that makes the blood start rolling down into his line of vision. Harry clenches his hands in the bedclothes. They’re _all_ going to go up in flames in a minute, unless he manages to do something drastic that Draco probably won’t allow him to do anyway.

“You can’t—” he began.

Draco leans over and spits in his face. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Potter. Son of a Mudblood, you should never have been allowed to inherit a double Lordship _anyway_! When I think what I could have done with that power—”

Harry’s eyes are locked on the green fire as it _does_ begin to spit and hiss out of control. He extends a hand into the air and closes his fingers around all the magic he can feel with his unnaturally enhanced senses, and then yanks down as hard as he can.

Draco bows forwards on the bed, and drops the knife. The fire shoots towards him. Harry rolls out of the way as much as he can but thrusts an arm into the way. He hisses at the nearly unbearable pain as the flames scorch him.

But they also eat through the rope around his wrist. Harry promptly snatches the knife and slashes through the one that binds him on the other side. Then he lunges over to press the blade against Draco’s throat.

Draco goes silent with a gasp, his eyes darting around. Harry nods in recognition, panting. The fire still hovers above him, for the moment borne on the currents of other magic in the room, like the conjuring of the knife and the tattered remains of Harry’s wards.

“Go outside,” Harry says.

Draco doesn’t try to hesitate, but turns and runs with his Sun Chamber robes flaring behind him. Harry, meanwhile, stands up. The green fire descends towards him. It’s a potent weapon. Being too close to it for too long will confuse Harry, the way he felt confused when he woke up, which makes him even less likely to escape from it.

He keeps an eye on it as he cuts his legs free with the knife. The fire is slowly turning a darker green again, reflecting its inherently unstable nature. The one who made the sacrifice to create it _should_ be the one to control it.

But Harry has done impossible things in his time, and he intends to do another one of them now.

“Look here!” he calls, and flings some random wandless magic into the air, making the room around him quake. The fire faces him at once, and reaches out choking green tendrils. Harry doubles and rolls, and the tendrils flow after him, along with the main body of the fire.

Harry runs through his house towards the front door, the same path that Draco took. The tingle of broken wards brushes against him as he bursts into the open. He dives past them, twisting, and the fire follows. For a moment, it pauses to swallow the magic of the wards eagerly.

Both Lucius and Draco are standing in front of him. Harry doesn’t spare them a glance. He turns and feeds more wandless magic to the fire, in a leading trail that coils around the remains of the wards. The fire darts into them. Harry brings his hands down, ignoring the way that his blood drips on the ground from the knife-cuts that Draco inflicted on him and Lucius is drawing his wand.

The fire flares all along the wards—and is caught inside them.

Harry flings his hand over his face as the wards ignite and burn like shredded paper in oil, so bright that it’s hard to catch his breath or see past them. But he also feels the pressure of magic off to the side, Dark magic, meaning Lucius has fired some sort of curse. Harry dives to one knee and throws the knife.

It hits; he hears a groan. But there’s more than just Lucius and Draco there, and Harry spins to his feet and leaps and dodges. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but the point is, neither do they.

One of them gets lucky, though, and hits him with a Stunner.

It’s not a very high-powered one. Harry falls to the ground and lies there quietly, his mouth open. Hands come over and flip him upside-down over a shoulder. Someone grunts and casts a Lightening Charm. Harry curls his lip since he’s virtually sure that his face is out of sight. _Should have done that before you lifted someone who’s almost pure muscle, you fucker._

“What now, my Lord?”

“The point was to panic his friends and supporters.” Lucius’s voice is recognizable, if ragged. “The broken wards and the signs of the fire and the blood ought to do that. _Draco_.” There’s a slight struggle and the sound of tearing cloth. Harry doesn’t dare open his eyes, but he thinks that Lucius just took his Sun Chamber robes back from his son.

“Are we going to take him to the Manor?”

“Oh, I think so. He escaped the dungeons once. He ought to have another tour of them, don’t you think?”

Harry keeps his face limp and relaxed as he feels them Apparate. When they land outside strong wards, he estimates that he’s got one chance, and he snaps his hand down to his side and calls for his wand as strongly as he can with wandless magic.

Someone’s pocket rips, someone else swears, and Harry briefly feels the holly wood in his hand. Then someone cuts his wrist so deeply that he loses his hold. He opens his eyes to see Lucius holding the wand and staring at him with hatred so deep and complex that Harry’s almost flattered.

“Why do you hate me so much?” he asks.

“Someone whose mother was a Mudblood and who brought down the Lord I dedicated my life to should not have a double Lordship.”

Harry sighs. The first reason just isn’t _interesting_ anymore. But the second one is at least a little better. “You don’t care all that he was an insane half-blood with a Muggle father? Not even a Muggleborn parent like I had?”

“I dedicated my life to him.”

“Oh, this is about your wounded pride. You should have said.”

Lucius’s fist cracks along his jaw. Harry turns his head with the blow, but groans convincingly. Draco comes up and stares down at him, but flinches when Harry sees some blood drip off the corner of his cheek.

Draco still doesn’t like killing, doesn’t like blood. Harry intends to use that. It may be his best chance of escaping.

“You will pay attention to me when I’m talking to you.”

And Harry was ignoring Lucius’s words altogether. That could be dangerous. He blinks and tries to focus, but from the way his head is spinning, he thinks he may have a concussion. He still manages to say, “Yes, Your Lordship.”

The title is mocking enough that Lucius hits him with a much harder Stunner, and the world goes away for a little while.


	20. Ever Dropping

Harry wakes in the Malfoy Manor dungeons. He can’t mistake that smell of rot and superiority.

He keeps his eyes closed as he flexes his hands, testing his bonds. They appear to have tied him with chains, instead of magic. Harry turns his wrists back and forth and feels the rub of actual steel against his skin. He hasn’t been rubbed raw yet. He’s on a pallet of some kind, flat on the floor, not hanging from his wrists.

_Amateurs._

Not amateurs about the way they captured him, though, Harry has to admit to himself as he thoughtfully turns his feet back and forth to feel the give in the shackles on his ankles. Lighting that green fire was a stroke of Dark Arts genius. It not only broke his wards and disabled most of the other defenses he would have in the house, it confused him and made his thoughts fixate in one direction. He could think only about getting Draco to stop stabbing him and then about getting away. The effect began to fade once they Apparated, but by then he was captive and under the influence of a half-effective Stunner.

It was bolder than he was prepared for. It’s not going to stop him from killing the Malfoys for it. Or at least Lucius. He doubts Draco really wanted his father to sacrifice a Muggle, even if he was willing to take advantage of it.

Harry finally opens his eyes. Darkness waits, but Harry can wait, too, and he stays patient and still until he can make out a thin length of light from under a heavy wooden door. Harry rolls his head towards it. The distance to it looks to be about half again the length of his chains.

_Hermione would be so disappointed in me for getting myself captured._

Harry digs down into his mind and spirit, and breathes out slowly. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Magic rises and sparks around him. It wants to form lights immediately, an instinctive reaction to the darkness, but Harry holds it back from doing that and instead winds it around his wrists, carefully arming himself against the chains.

The metal is stronger than he expected, steel infused with runes. Harry uses the magic to trace the runes and make out the shape; he’s fairly certain that burned fingers are the _least_ of what he could expect if he tried a physical touch. His eyebrows climb up when he makes out shapes on the edge of ash trees and lightning bolts. Huh. They are taking him more seriously than he thought.

He lets the wandless magic go and lies in the darkness for a moment, thinking. He can turn the straw or fathers in the pallet into a weapon, but he needs someone to attack first. He can wait until someone comes to get him, but he doesn’t want to. He can make them think that he’s still asleep, but that also has the drawbacks of waiting.

In the end, Harry shakes his head. He would like to stay here and find out what they’re plotting, but there is too much chance that it would involve him being a sacrifice to power a ritual or some other disgusting purpose. Harry intends to be the one to sacrifice people if it has to be done.

“Kreacher!” he calls.

It takes a moment, but the elf manages to get through whatever protections hide the dungeons. Harry thinks it probably has to do with Kreacher’s stubbornness as much as any connection Draco or Narcissa have to the Black blood. Kreacher puts his hands on his hips when he sees Harry. “What has Harry Potter Auror been _doing_?”

“Getting myself into awkward situations,” Harry admits, holding out his chained hands. “Can you remove these?”

Kreacher stretches out a hand and hisses as his fingers come into contact with the edge of a cuff. “The runes! The runes, they are too strong!”

Harry nods. Well, he escaped from Malfoy Manor once before with the aid of a house-elf. It makes sense that this time, they would decide to make that as difficult as possible. “Okay. Can you go upstairs, spy on the people there, and return and tell me what they’re saying?”

Kreacher gives him an offended look. “Harry Potter Auror is not giving _real_ challenges,” he says, and vanishes.

Harry settles back with a grunt and a sigh. His legs ache. The cuffs there seem to have tightened when he moved around. It would be like the Malfoys to enchant them so, Harry thinks. A lot of movement might be the sign of an escape.

It seems like a slow-moving hour until Kreacher reappears. He bobs his head determinedly. “Harry Potter Auror is being kidnapped by idiots.”

“Well, I knew that.”

“The people up there are discussing Harry Potter Auror. One group says to kill him. Mistress Narcissa be saying no. She is saying they can use you as a hostage for good treatment from the Ministry.”

 _And maybe get themselves back in good standing if they trade some favors for releasing me,_ Harry thinks. Narcissa has always been smarter than the rest of them. “How many people are up there?”

“Seven. Mistress Narcissa, Master Draco, Lucius Malfoy, and four Kreacher is not knowing.”

“Do they wear robes like mine when I go to the Sun Chamber?” While it hasn’t changed the bossy way Kreacher treats him, Harry’s double Lordships make his elf proud. He’s put himself in charge of cleaning the robes and the gold stole and all the rest of it. He’ll know what they look like.

“Two of them, Harry Potter Auror. Two of them be tall and proud and one is a woman with red hair and one is the man with sandy hair Harry Potter Auror laughs through the fireplace with.”

 _“Neville_?” Harry chokes. “Neville is here?”

“He is being Lord Longbottom? Yes, Kreacher remembers now. Kreacher is bad elf for forgetting.” Kreacher turns around and hits his forehead on the stone.

For a moment, Harry sits there in wonder, because he can’t believe Neville betrayed him and yet he doesn’t understand how else Neville would have access to Malfoy Manor. Then he shakes his head. He’ll act on the supposition that Neville is here to help him unless something else happens. Susan is an unknown factor, though. “Can you carry a message to Neville without alerting anyone else, Kreacher?”

Kreacher gives him a faintly insulted look. “Kreacher can be doing much more than that, Harry Potter Auror.”

“I know, but I’m talking about what you can do right now.”

Kreacher sniffs and nods. Harry wishes he had something to write on, as that wouldn’t require Kreacher to speak, but he can’t move his hands into the right position anyway, it’ll have to be verbal. “Tell him that I’m in the same place that Luna and I told him about.”

Kreacher vanishes. Harry carefully wakes his wandless magic again. He’s not as exhausted as he expected to be after confronting the green fire. He must have slept a long time on the pallet.

He winds the magic around his shoulders in the form of an invisible but strong and hissing serpent. He can either aid an ally, if one shows up, or attack his enemies, but he’ll probably only get one strike before someone tries to Stun him again.

There’s a soft pop beside him as Kreacher appears again. “Lord Longbottom is hearing the message, Harry Potter Auror.”

“Good. Then I want you to cause as much noise as you can. All right? Around the stairs to the dungeons. But leave before someone can see you.”

“Harry Potter Auror does not need to be telling Kreacher.” Again the elf goes. Harry pulls more and more magic out of his body, stopping only when he knows that he would faint or fall if he tried to run. He needs to escape once he’s out of the chains, not collapse and let them capture him again.

A rumble begins to shake the Manor, sounding as though some pissed-off dragon has woken up deep beneath them. Harry listens critically, and then shakes his head. No, he’s wrong, it doesn’t sound like that after all. He should know, after the dragon that he and Ron and Hermione rode out of Gringotts.

Footsteps begin to rush down the stairs. Harry can only trust that Kreacher is out of the way. He readies the snake around his shoulders. Although he can’t see it—his magic isn’t visible because that’s the way he _wants_ it—it does rear up, its power flowing out of it, so savage that Harry shivers in delight.

This is the first time that he’s come so close to unleashing in front of other people. Only the rune-marked chains hold him back now.

As it happens, the first person who flings open the door of his cell is Draco. Harry snaps the serpent out in a long motion with his arm that his chains don’t restrict. In seconds, the unseen mouth of the serpent clamps down around Draco’s wand and yanks it away from him, bearing it back towards Harry.

Harry laughs as it settles into his hand. He’s used this wand before, and the hawthorn wood hums and then settles into his grip. He touches it to the runes on the cuffs around his wrists, and they explode.

Harry is already moving as the shards of steel spring up around him. He knows they might have cut him. He also knows it doesn’t matter. Once he goes deep enough into his battle-fury, then he won’t feel the pain of any wounds until long after he slows down.

One touch, and the cuffs around his ankles explode as well. Stunners fill the cell, but Harry is on the floor, using the pallet as shelter, and he fires a Bone-Breaking Curse, precisely, one after the other. It’s damage he can heal if he catches Neville or anyone else friendly to him, but it will also cripple and incapacitate the ones who aren’t.

He hears the sound of Draco’s leg breaking, then Lucius reels back with a dangling arm. Susan Bones is standing there with her hands clasped to her mouth and her eyes so wide that Harry can’t help laughing at her as he bolts up and Disarms Narcissa with an easy motion of his own wand. Narcissa’s face goes pale, but she steps backwards and awaits events.

“They told us,” Susan whispers. “They owled us. They said they had you captured, and that you would suffer unless we did exactly as they told us.”

“Harry, mate?” Neville steps forwards, his eyes wide. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Harry looks curiously at the two people behind Neville and Susan, his blood beating furiously against his ears. He recognizes the white-bearded man in the Lordship robes of the Sun Chamber after a moment. He’s Lord Abbott, a distant relative of Hannah’s. His first name is Maximillian or something like that, Harry thinks. He pauses, then bows deeply.

“They didn’t owl me, Lord Potter, Lord Black, but I came with my cousin-in-law for moral support.”

Harry nods. He and Lord Abbott haven’t interacted before this. At least he’s giving scathing glances at the Malfoys, so it’s probable that he’s on Harry’s side.

The last person is a small wrinkled woman that Harry has sometimes seen in the Wizengamot’s chambers, but whose name he doesn’t know. He also doesn’t think she’s a Wizengamot member, but more like an adviser or secretary or companion to someone who is. She nods distantly when she catches his eye.

“Prudence Ottery,” she says. “I’m a half-blood. I keep records of the cases tried before the Wizengamot in easily accessible places.” Her hands clench. “And I received an owl that I should come to Malfoy Manor to see how the mighty have fallen. They were telling me to destroy court records that could have been damaging to pure-bloods.”

“Well, then I suspect that you’ll have some new records to compile or move after this,” Harry says with a pleasant smile, and faces the Malfoys.

Narcissa drops a curtsey, her eyes fastened on his face. Harry isn’t sure how quick she actually is on the uptake, but it looks as though it’s quicker than her husband and son. “Cases involving members of the Sun Chamber and the pure-blood families that belong to it are not usually tried before the Wizengamot, Lord Potter.”

“Not _usually_ ,” Harry agreed. “Then again, it’s not like there’s usually three Lords and a Lady as witnesses.”

After a second, Narcissa tilts her head, conceding the point. “For the sake of the lives that you spared in the war,” she asks, her breath soft, “will you spare them Azkaban?”

“Not this time.” Harry looks her fearlessly in the eye as her face jerks up. “I already spared them, and all they did was turn around and prove why they can’t be trusted. No, Mrs. Malfoy. I won’t do it this time.”

“My son—he will succumb to the Dementors. He has no defenses against them.”

“I thought he knew Occlumency?”

“Such mental defenses are no use against _them_. I beg you, Lord Potter.” To Harry’s intense embarrassment, Narcissa kneels in front of him and reaches out to embrace his legs. It’s something he read about in some of the books he read on pure-blood nobility, but nothing he thought someone would actually _do_ to him. “For the sake of the House whose name you bear, and whose blood Draco and I carry in our veins. Please spare him Azkaban.”

“Are you making the same plea for your husband?” Harry looks at Lucius, who leans on the wall cradling his broken arm, his eyes full of the same mindless hate that Harry usually sees when someone is spitting about Mudbloods.

“My husband made his choices. But from the day that Draco was born, we have forced him to obey us.”

“He’s the same age as me, Mrs. Malfoy. He has to start taking responsibility for his decisions at some point.”

Narcissa swallows and leans back without releasing her hold on his legs. “Please, Lord Black. Let it not be now.”

Harry stands there for a while, thinking. Neville and Susan don’t interrupt; Susan still has her hands clasped in front of her mouth as if afraid of what words are going to escape her if she speaks. Abbott and Ottery look as if their main fascination in this situation is what _he’s_ going to do, and they don’t move.

“There’s one thing I could do,” Harry finally says, grinning a little as he comes up with it. It would be a way to neutralize Malfoy entirely, at least as a family with any power in the Sun Chamber. And probably the Wizengamot, too, now that he thinks of it. No, _definitely_ the Wizengamot.

“What is it?” Narcissa immediately acts as if she would go into the Forbidden Forest to hunt centaurs if he commanded it.

“He can swear allegiance to me as Lord Black,” Harry says blandly. “Renounce his family and the Lordship that would otherwise be his someday. Accept a position that will never result in him becoming my Heir. And then his father goes to Azkaban.”

Narcissa quivers for a moment. But maybe because she wasn’t born into the Malfoy family and the Lordship doesn’t mean as much to her as it means to Draco and Lucius, she says, “I agree,” almost at once.

“ _Mother_!” Draco seemed to have fainted from the pain of his broken leg the last time Harry looked at him, but he’s awake now and staring at them with horrified eyes.

“That’s the deal, Malfoy,” Harry says pleasantly. “You stop existing as a threat to me. Azkaban would do that, which is why it’s an option I’m holding in reserve. Your choice. Become a Black or go to prison.”

Draco flinches, and Harry smiles as his guess proves correct. Draco is squeamish about blood, but he’s also squeamish about pain of any kind. Harry reckons that he was less susceptible to the Dementors than Harry during third year only because he had less painful memories at that point.

Now, he has plenty of them.

“I—I’ll become a Black, then,” Draco whispers.

Narcissa sinks back with a hiss of relief, and finally removes her damn arms from Harry’s damn legs. Lucius snarls, “Draco!”

“We’ll need a formal vow,” Narcissa says, and her voice is soft and determined. “A formal swearing of allegiance.”

“I know,” Harry says, with a nod, and then casts the spell that will heal Draco’s broken leg. Most of the time, it wouldn’t be so easy, but he chose the curse he did for a reason. It hits at a weak spot in the bone and shatters it, but in a way that means little splinters of bone aren’t hanging around in the limb. Draco stands up slowly, feeling his leg and staring at Harry with wide eyes.

“If you think that I will welcome you into my home after this,” Lucius says in a voice so guttural that it’s hard for Harry to understand the words.

“He’ll be welcome in Grimmauld Place and the rest of the Black properties I own,” Harry says with a shrug, and meets Draco’s eyes, which are filled with hero-worship. “As long as he never acts against me again.”

Draco nods frantically, and Narcissa stands and walks off in search of, presumably, the materials they’ll need for this vow.

“Lord Abbott, would you mind calling the Aurors?”

And Harry binds Lucius, just in case, before the Aurors can arrive _or_ Draco can swear his vow.


	21. Ever Strung

"I don't understand why you accepted _Malfoy_ into the bloody Black family."

"You don't? Really?" Harry puts down his cup of tea that he's sprinkled Firewhisky into and gives Ron a look of slight concern. "And here I thought the lessons in politics with Hermione were going so well."

"Suck your politics up your arse. What part of political genius is getting yourself _captured_ and then giving up the chance to punish one of the people who captured you and killed someone?" Ron flings himself into the chair across from Harry and glares at him.

Harry spends a little more time drinking his tea and then sighs and says, "All right, since you want to know. I know Draco didn't kill that Muggle. I spent time talking to him about it and Draco was practically babbling at the chance to convince me. Lucius killed him. Draco can't stand the sight of blood or spilling it himself. That was why the spell they used to try and contain me was so weak."

"But he still stood back and let it happen!"

"I know. That's why he _is_ going to participate in bringing down the pure-blood way of life he loves so much and isn't going to have a choice about that."

Ron blinks. "You would trust that little coward with our plans? When you feel like you can't even trust _Ginny_ with them?"

"Of course not. Although I'll remind you that Ginny declared herself against me and Draco is currently slobbering at my feet with eagerness to make up for what he's done."

Ron thinks about that for a second, his own cup of tea so precariously balanced in his hand Harry thinks it'll spill. But that's nothing a simple Cleaning Charm can't take care of. "So, what they did in the past really--doesn't matter to you?"

"It matters in that it lets me predict what they'll do now. Draco was horrified and sick at what his father did to that Muggle. Not enough to stop it, no, or stand up to him, because he's also a coward. But he'll go along with me because he knows that I'm not going to force him to kill or do something else he finds distasteful. And he'll do whatever I want him to do in sheer gratitude."

"And Ginny?"

"She's stubborn and a bad enemy. I wish I could convert her, but she seems to have taken it as a personal grudge that I did something to Simon. Does Ginny with a personal grudge let up or come back to that person's side?"  
Ron pauses, then shakes his head. "The only time I can think of was with Percy, and he had to do a _lot_ of groveling."

"Which I won't be doing."

"Mate. Do you ever think sometimes that the cost is--too much? That we should just backtrack and accept that the Ministry will always be corrupt and our friends will always get the worst of it?"

"No," Harry says. He watches Ron frown, and holds up a hand. "Hear me out. We tried _ten years_ of the 'right way.' We negotiated and we persuaded and we worked on legislation and we turned people in when they took bribes and we handed out pamphlets and we got the worst examples sacked. And what happened?"

"People praised our work and _still_ didn't convict pure-bloods. And none of our legislation passed."

Harry nods, hearing the undertone of anger in Ron's voice. "Not one victory. And now we know part of the reason why. The Sun Chamber was controlling the Wizengamot like an oligarchy the entire time. Of course they could always bribe new people and call on family connections and the reverence people like Kingsley have for them to overturn convictions and legislation."

Ron swallows and says nothing. Harry leans forwards. "Do you want to go back to that? Only not completely back, because now we know about the Sun Chamber and we won't have the same kind of hope that maybe someday someone would start listening to us. Is that what you want, Ron? For us to be--"

" _No_ , damnit!"

A few candles in the room go out, a flare of accidental magic that's rare coming from Ron. Harry nods. "Neither do I. Which is one reason that we're going to push forwards and destroy things and then you can help build up the new wizarding world if you want. Ginny can help if she wants. Simon can be a Lord if he can convince people to call him that. I'm just going to make sure that the Sun Chamber and the Wizengamot and the corrupted bodies that _are_ real right now are going to cease to exist."

"You're not going to help rebuild?"

"Hell, no. I deserve a holiday after saving the world bloody twice, right?"

"They might demand you do--"

Harry grins and drops some of the holds on his magic, letting a flare of wandless fire rise above him and nearly scorch the ceiling. But he pulls it back before it can. He doesn't want to set his _personal_ house on fire. "Do I look like I can be pressured into this?"

"No." Ron smiles reluctantly at him. "I know that Luna and Rolf are interested in rebuilding, although I think Rolf is still too interested in the old order. And Ginny is--too moderate. She'll think there has to be something good about the old world just because she can't believe it's that corrupt."

"And you?"

"Me? I'm like Hermione, mate. With you until the end." Ron stands up and gently nudges at Harry's shoulder. "Whether it's right or not."

*

"The trial of Lucius Malfoy begins today."

Harry sits on a chair near the back of the Wizengamot's gallery reserved for witnesses, watching in interest as Malfoy walks to the chair in front of everyone that Harry has sat in more than once. He's apparently decided on dignity. He doesn't look to left or right, and once he's seated, he stares over everyone's head at the wall.

Well, he does look at _one_ person. His eyes lock on Draco, sitting at Harry's side, and widen in disbelief for a moment before he controls the expression and looks away.

Draco squirms. "Are they even going to believe me?" he whispers to Harry. "They believed him every other time, when he claimed to be under the Imperius."

"They did at that," Harry says, and smiles at his new ally. "They won't now."

Draco doesn't look convinced. Harry turns forwards and listens as Lord Abbott brings the case in front of the Wizengamot. He describes the letter he got from Lucius and what he arrived to find: the twisted negotiations that insisted they would kill Harry if they didn't get what they wanted from him and the rest.

Narcissa takes over the narration then, making it clear, with lowered eyes and tone of voice more than any words, that she and her son felt intimidated by Lucius and unable to stand up to him because he controls many more Dark Arts than he's ever let them know. Draco swallows and slowly stands when the Wizengamot's attention turns to him.

"Is this true, Heir Malfoy?" The Wizengamot has started using titles since the existence of the Sun Chamber became common knowledge.

"It is." Draco's voice seems to be firm only when he's not looking at his father, but that's all right. Harry can still use an ally like that. "My father killed a Muggle to create a Sacrificial Verdant Fire that would let us gain access to Lord Potter's home."

There's more than one gasp at that. Harry grins a little. More people in this room have performed Dark Arts than would ever admit to it, but even they would prefer to use their own blood or an animal sacrifice, not a human one. Lucius has crossed a line of taste, which is more important to them than lines of law.

It's a stupid reaction, but where Harry can use it to his advantage, then he will.

"And you had nothing to do with this killing?"

"I didn't speak up when I should have, to save the victim's life." Draco's voice is low. "I'm ashamed of that."

"And he should be arrested as an accessory, since he stood by and did nothing," Lucius adds in a low, drawling voice that makes Draco cringe in mortification.

"It is true that Draco Malfoy was an accessory to the crime," Harry says, and stands. He watches people flinch in discomfort as they look at him. He does manage to keep from smiling. "But he turned witness for me afterwards, and he has offered Pensieve memories of the killing if the Wizengamot wishes to see them. In addition, he has agreed to exterminate the Malfoy family Lordship by taking the name of Black."

Whispers and mutters run the course of the Chamber. Harry keeps on smiling. They want to place Lords and Ladies above other people and let them do whatever they want? Then they have to let a Lord administer his own justice, too.

"Lord Potter." At least this Wizengamot member, a man with sleek black hair that Harry knows is named Alfred Megobairn, seems uncomfortable speaking the title. "You should not--you cannot demand such a price."

Harry shrugs. "They kidnapped me and held me in the dungeon, Mr. Megobairn. They were attempting to extort several other people as the price to keep me safe, as you've heard. They _killed someone as a sacrifice_ to fuel the Dark Arts that allowed them to break through my wards." He lets his voice descend and growl, and some people in the chamber are watching him with shining faces. Not enough, not yet, but he might pick up some recruits from the Wizengamot the way he did with the Aurors. "Law and custom give me the ability to demand a price from them. Draco Malfoy willingly became a Black."

"I did. I'm ashamed of what my family did."

 _And he wants to stay safe._ But honestly, if Draco is insincere about his shame, Harry can't tell from his face or voice.

"But we can't allow Lords to run around and do whatever they want, either."

Harry grins. He sees Lord Abbott and some of the others here tense, including Lucius. "An excellent idea. I don't think anyone should be above the law. So should we get started with applying the Veritaserum to Lord Malfoy, and then we can move on to some of the other Lords and Ladies here?"

"Excuse Alfred," says a woman who Harry knows is related to the Shafiqs. She gives Megobairn a stare that makes him wilt, and turns to Harry with a motion that resembles a bow on the edge of a curtsey. "We are merely _curious_ about the stated terms of your recompense, Lord Potter. You could demand money from the Malfoys, or you could have turned Heir Malfoy over to the Aurors along with his father. Why did you decide to have him shed his last name instead?"

 _Because this is part of ending all that._ But Harry only widens his eyes and asks, "Why wouldn't I? Lord Malfoy values his family name more than anything else--far more than he values his actual son. This is the end of that for him."

He sees some people in the audience flinch. Well, good. Maybe they'll see the sense of what he's saying and stand aside.

"I--see." The woman doesn't look especially pleased, but she turns back to Draco. "And you are willing to show us these Pensieve memories of the killing?"

"Yes, I am."

Harry stands with his arms folded as the memories are gathered into a Pensieve by an Auror--they haven't let Draco have his own wand since he walked in here--and then enchanted to rise up as transparent images, visible from all sides no matter where you stand. It's a neat piece of magic that only started being perfected in the last few years. Harry has no doubt that it's because that was when a rash of pure-blood teenagers got in trouble. God forbid they perfect it for people like _him_ , when he was fifteen and on trial and could have simply shown the memories he had of the Dementor attack in Little Whinging to his political enemies.

He becomes aware that his nails are driving into his palms, and makes himself stop.

More than one person gasps or makes retching noises as they watch Lucius Malfoy kidnap the man from a Muggle alley, bring him to the sacrificial stone that he's set up, and drive the blade into his chest. He collects all the blood, while Draco hunches behind him, pale and sick to the most unobservant eyes. Harry watches without expression. There are wizards baiting Muggles every day, and the Aurors and Obliviators come along and cover it up without doing anything else. This is merely bringing the harm face-to-face, where the Wizengamot can't turn away from it.

Harry thinks _that's_ what causes the sickness they're experiencing, more than the death.

Then Draco has to step forwards in the memory and take up control of the spell that his father has created with the blood sacrifice. Harry shakes his head a little as he watches more cringing filter through the ranks. Most of the people in this room have given the Malfoys a pass on Muggle-baiting and torture and murder through two wars now. It’s true that Lucius didn’t do as much in the last one, but he still cast the Unforgivables more than once.

_You don’t like seeing what you’re wrought? Then you shouldn’t have wrought it in the first place._

When the memory ends, a profound silence fills the courtroom. Harry stares at them. He wonders what comes next. Denial, an attempt to sacrifice Lucius and no one else so that they can keep acting as if pure-bloods are mostly innocent, accusations against him?

What happens, instead, is Alfred Megobairn clearing his throat and asking, “How close would you say the Verdant Fire came to killing you, Lord Potter?”

“Very close,” Harry says honestly. “It’s a confusing spell in and of itself, and it had broken through my wards, so I was dealing with the effects of that as I woke up and also trying to evaluate the situation and decide how I could survive.”

Megobairn gives him a measured look. “But you are here, and you are prepared to forgive the man who wielded the spell.”

“Not the one who created it or who killed an innocent to do so.”

Megobairn sighs in a way that means he does indeed see an escape route closing in on him, and nods. “All right, I see what you mean, Lord Potter. Then we will hear the testimony of Lord Longbottom and Lady Bones, and then we will vote on Lucius’s guilt.”

Harry sits back down, and gives a reassuring smile to Draco, who seems in a daze at the thought that he might get the protection that Harry promised him. Harry, of course, never intended to have this happen any other way. If by some fluke they do decide Lucius is innocent, then he’ll deal with the man some other way, but he’ll still keep Draco as part of his plans and the ending of the Malfoy line.

Neville tells the story quietly, and gets all the details right, from the way that Malfoy contacted him to how he invited Hannah’s cousin to come with him. Then Susan stands up, so pale that Harry eyes her.

“I don’t—I don’t understand what’s going on here,” Susan says loudly.

Harry waits. Just like with the Wizengamot, he wants to see what she’s doing before he decides how he needs to move.

“You’re willing to excuse _murder_ ,” Susan says, and turns to stare at Draco. “Heir Malfoy participated by taking control of the spell that allowed him to pass Lord Potter’s wards, even if it’s true that his hand didn’t hold the knife. How can anything be just if you let anyone get away with it? Punish both Lord Malfoy and Heir Malfoy, or let them both go free.”

_So that’s it. She’s still too black-and-white in her thinking._

“There’s merit to what Lady Bones says!” someone in the crowd calls out, the way Harry knew they would.

“And was Heir Malfoy making absolute free, unbiased choices?” Harry asks smoothly. He’s happier than ever that he read all those books with the rules of behavior for Lords and Ladies of the Sun Chamber through. “Given that a Lord or Lady can say in a word that an Heir or Heiress is unworthy and dismiss them, how can we be sure that Heir Malfoy was doing what he did of his own _free_ will?”

Draco picks up on the hint quickly. “My father has always said that he felt I was unworthy and he was willing to dismiss me, only there was no one of the proper blood,” he says, and stares directly at Susan. “And my name is Draco _Black_ now.”

“You were Heir Malfoy at the time!”

Draco shrugs mostly with his eyebrows. “Now I’m not, and I’d appreciate some consideration for that, Lady Bones, consideration of what I gave up. Besides, giving up titles is one of the punishments that someone in the Sun Chamber can undergo when convicted of a crime. It’s just not one that’s used very often.”

“You should suffer worse than your title being taken away,” Susan hisses at him.

“It’s also all the money and properties that the Malfoy line owns.” Draco looks at her with such a neutral mask that Harry honestly has no idea what hides behind it. “They can only be held by someone who’s a blood member of the family _and_ approved of by the current Lord. We—the Malfoys can’t even leave their property to someone else who was accepted into the family the way that the last Lord Black did. I’ll be penniless except for Lord Black’s generosity.”

“That’s _not enough_!”

“What would be enough, Lady Bones? Azkaban?”

“Yes! The same as Lord Malfoy is going to receive!”

“We actually don’t know that he’s going to receive that,” Harry says, because he wants to remind Susan of what her interference might mean. “The Wizengamot hasn’t made up its mind yet.”

Susan glares at him. “And you could press charges equally for both of them trying to kidnap and extort you, but—”

“I have chosen not to, because only one of them showed repentance for it.”

Susan shakes her head, her red hair shining about her shoulders. “It should be equal justice.”

“Even when the crimes aren’t the same? Should we have the same punishment _regardless_ of circumstances?”

“That isn’t what I meant! Simply the same punishment for the same crime, regardless of whether the person is a Lord or Lady or wealthy or not!”

Harry raises his eyebrows a little. She’s done it now, although she doesn’t seem to realize she has. The people in the Wizengamot who are related to old pure-blood families or the members of the Sun Chamber are staring at her in disbelief. “Then I suspect we will have to revisit a great deal of the old trials, and make sure that no one was given a pass who should have gone to Azkaban simply because that person had wealth or pure blood.”

Susan folds her arms, but says nothing. Harry turns to the Wizengamot. “Is there anything else you want to hear?”

In the end, when it becomes obvious that Susan isn’t actually going to say what Lucius contacted her and said, the Wizengamot does vote. They do convict Lucius. Harry gets resentful glances. A lot of them come from Susan.

Harry stares back at her, willing her to understand. _We are on the same side. But you can’t get there by attacking the basis of the Sun Chamber’s power at one moment and then insisting that it’s legitimate at other times. Make the leap, Susan. See this for what it really is._

She can’t do that yet, but Harry is more hopeful than he’s been in some time.


	22. Had Lifted Up

Harry opens up the door and steps inside, shaking the blast of cold rain off his cloak. Luna’s letter was short and terse, so unlike her that he wonders if she’s sick. But she said to come at once, so if she is sick, it’s not the kind of disease that would prevent her from seeing anyone.

“Luna?” he calls when no one immediately shows up.

There’s some sharp scuffling from the kitchen. Before he can catch up with his own instincts, Harry has dropped into a crouch and lifted a shield in front of himself. Then he snaps out a detection charm that will tell him how many people are in front of him and whether they’re preparing to cast deadly magic.

 _Two,_ the spell bounces back to him like a bat’s sonar. _Lifting wands only._

Harry doesn’t think he’ll need to fight, but on the other hand, this might be someone who’s holding Luna hostage because they’ve figured out that she’s working with Harry. He slides forwards step by silent step at a time, his charm still hovering around him and ready to alert him in seconds if a spell starts to rise.

It doesn’t. Harry makes it all the way into a corner of Luna’s entrance where he can see at an angle into the kitchen, and then he leaps to his feet and strides forwards.

Ginny is standing there with her wand drawn and her face as brilliant a red as the tomatoes in Molly’s gardens. Rolf is standing across from her with his own wand slowly lowering and a broken cup of tea on the kitchen floor in front of him.

Harry turns to face Ginny. His shield moves along with him, spreading out like wings, although he banishes the detection charm. “Well?” he asks quietly.

“Now you’re treating me like an enemy, Harry?”

“What were you here talking to Rolf about?”

“Tea. Lunch. I mean, how to make them. How to cook.”

Harry ignores Rolf’s babbling, keeping his eyes on Ginny. She’s never been a good liar; he thinks that she got away with keeping Tom Riddle’s diary secret in second year so long only because no one ever directly asked her about such a thing, and had no reason to, when they couldn’t know it existed. And she gets angry when someone asks her directly about something she doesn’t want to talk about.

She’ll snap.

“I mean, it was just a harmless discussion. I didn’t know that you needed to be invited to those, _Lord Potter._ ”

Again, Harry ignores Rolf, and lets his shield turn a little, so that light will flash from the edge and remind Ginny that it’s there, and he doesn’t trust her.

And Ginny snaps.

“He was telling me all the horrible things that you plan to do to our world,” she snarls, and her face lights up with a rush of battle-fury. “You’re going to damn innocents along with everyone else, Harry! Did you think that I _wasn’t_ going to find out about that and fight you?”

And she casts a silent hex at him, but unluckily for her, Harry is an Auror with his full training, while all Ginny has ever had was the D.A.

His shield whirls out and catches it, then sweeps it back at her in a half-circle. Ginny barely manages to jump out of the way. The hex cuts a gash in the table that nearly severs it in half.

Ginny yelps and leaps and twists away. Harry spends the necessary minute casting more shields so that no other pieces of Luna’s furniture will be damaged. Then he twists himself to deal with his newest nuisance.

Ginny is a fast and powerful fighter, with some nasty magic that she picked up from George. But spells alone aren’t enough. She lacks technique and strategy, and from the way she spends most of her time dodging instead of casting as Harry confronts her, what’s she mastered is “get out of the way.”

Harry accepts a few stings and burns from the hexes that fly at him, and concentrates on cornering Ginny between the wall and his stalking shield. It doesn’t take long. In perhaps a minute and a half, Ginny is bound in cords made of the shield spell itself, thinned out and expertly-shaped. Her hands clench behind her back, still holding her wand but so closely imprisoned that she can’t move it—and Harry knows well enough that she never mastered wandless magic, either. Her eyes are bright with defiance.

“You’re going to destroy innocents,” she repeats. Her breath is huffing out of her, her lungs shivering with hatred. Harry knows what it looks like now, after seeing it on the faces of the Lords and Ladies of the Sun Chamber.

Harry steps towards her. “And you decided to go behind my back and con the answers out of Rolf instead of asking me?”

“He’s the one who told me the details. I know you would never do that! You’re afraid I’d stop you!”

“And what about the innocents that are being destroyed every day by the Ministry, Ginny? The Muggleborns who can’t find any jobs because their ‘dirty blood’ holds them back? The centaurs who are confined to preserves and prevented from holding wands? The goblins who are bound by magic to guard wizarding money when that’s not even something they did until they were forced to? The house-elves who are abused and mistreated? Do they not matter, because they’re not pure-bloods?”

Ginny stops struggling, eyes narrowing as if his words have finally started making sense to her. “You haven’t made it clear why your way is so much better.”

“Because you don’t really want to be convinced. You just want to fight me.”

Ginny blinks at him. Then she says, “Try to convince me now.”

Harry thinks about it, then shrugs. He’ll probably have to _Obliviate_ her of what she learned from Rolf anyway. He’ll just do the same with this information if his arguments don’t work. “The Ministry is corrupt, and so is the world that surrounds it. The Wizengamot is. They judge pure-bloods leniently for crimes that include literal murder. They do what the Sun Chamber tells them to. No one knew about the Sun Chamber until I broke the news on them. That means there was no way to appeal any verdict or ask them for help, even if they made a request or decision that directly affected someone. Can you understand how _terrible_ that is? To have a secret government body deciding things?”

“But blowing it up will make things better?”

“It’ll get rid of a cancer that we don’t stand a chance of getting rid of otherwise,” Harry told her frankly.

“Legislation! Campaigning! I know Hermione—”

“Hermione didn’t achieve a single success in the last ten years, Ginny.”

“She did too! I remember when she got that legislation passed that said werewolves didn’t have to register with the Ministry—”

“It was overturned the next month, in a quiet little vote that the Wizengamot didn’t announce and the _Prophet_ put on the ninth page after an article about the robes that the Holyhead Harpies were wearing that season.”

Ginny only stares some more. Harry looks at her, waits, and, when she says nothing, delivers another blow. “Hermione has found evidence that people have repeatedly blocked her promotion within the Ministry. The evidence doesn’t always lead back to someone who’s pure-blooded themselves, but they’re always in the employ of pure-bloods. Including some of the families that make up the Sun Chamber.”

“But Hermione has gone so far…”

“And she wanted to go further. She wanted to do good for this world. But she’s been blocked, Ginny. Are you still going to say that this is a world that has time and a place for people who aren’t part of those old families?”

“It doesn’t mean that you have a right to destroy it.”

“Neither do they have a right to control it and keep it exactly the way it’s been for centuries because that’s what’s _more comfortable_ for them.” Harry realizes he’s spitting the words, and tries to ease back a little so that Ginny won’t feel overwhelmed. “Listen to me. I’ve done what I can. I’ve put in motion what I can. And I struggled for years before that, by Ron’s side and Hermione’s, to create change. It didn’t do a damn bit of good. This will.”

“But what happens when you destroy the Ministry? All that will happen is the pure-blood families will decide you’re an unstable half-blood or something, and take over again.”

Harry smiles. Good. Rolf didn’t get far enough to tell her all the details of their plans—maybe because this is one that he doesn’t actually believe can happen. “They’ll be gone.”

“You’re going to _murder_ all of them?” Ginny’s voice rises, and her hands writhe in her shield bonds almost strongly enough to get loose and reach her wand.

Harry laughs. “No need to. I am simply going to change their minds.”

Ginny frowns warily at him. Then she shakes her head and says, “However you plan to do that, it wouldn’t be a true changing. They would only come after you again in the future. You ought to try and accomplish this through legal, legitimate means, Harry. Don’t give in and use their underhanded methods.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, it’s such a bitter necessity. But I _am_ going to change their minds, Ginny. That’s the way it is.” He moved his wand, and the shield that holds her in place dissipates. “Now, are you going to go about and spread the story, or fight by my side, or oppose me in another way?”

“I’m going straight to the Minister. I can’t believe you!”

Harry shakes his head. “That’s what I was afraid of. _Obliviate_.”

For a second, Ginny blinks and looks as though she doesn’t know why she’s standing in Luna’s house. Harry steps forwards and pats her on the shoulder. “I know that you don’t like me much right now, but I hope we can cooperate while Luna is sick.”

Ginny’s eyes sharpen again. “Of course. I’ll bring her some pain-killers and Pepper-Up tomorrow, since you’re pants with potions.” She hands Harry a condescending smile and departs the kitchen with a flip of her long red hair.

Harry turns to confront Rolf. The man is so pale that he looks as if he’s going to sick up any second. He meets Harry’s gaze and then turns his head away, trembling. “She deserves to know what’s going on.”

“Why? When she would be part of the means of ensuring that Muggleborns and magical creatures continue to endure oppression?”

“That’s just—just the way it is—”

Harry’s magic stirs, and the kitchen table finishes cracking in two. Rolf presses his back against the counter, paler than ever. Harry steps forwards and lays his hands on the table, fixing it with a silent _Reparo_ , not glancing away from Rolf.

“Yes, things should stay the same they always have been, shouldn’t they? Never mind that pure-bloods are supported by all the underpaid labor of Muggleborns in the Ministry and Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade and elsewhere, doing jobs that the pure-bloods would disdain. Never mind that they don’t have to bother learning basic household charms because the house-elves do that work for them. Never mind that they can kill and bait Muggles to get their jollies off and the worst they’ll get is a small fine from the Wizengamot. Everything should stay _exactly the same_.”

“I don’t—I mean, of course I support better pay for Muggleborns and better treatment of house-elves! But you can’t _force_ people to give that to them.”

“No?”

“No, because it’ll never work!” Rolf seems to be getting his feet back underneath him now, his hands pressing more firmly against the counter. “They would pretend to agree and in the end the changes wouldn’t be passed through. I oppose you because it’s not going to work, not because I think you’re wrong!”

“No,” Harry says quietly. The table is completely repaired from the cracks he and Ginny made in it. He moves away from it, but doesn’t take his attention from Rolf. That would be stupid, given the circumstances. “You were content to allow things to remain as they are, as long as _you_ weren’t inconvenienced.”

Rolf stares in silence and says nothing. Luna is the one who steps out from her bedroom and says, in the weariest tone Harry has ever heard from her, “Please don’t use the Memory Charm on my husband.”

Harry nods to her. She looks well, of course. He knows the note was simply a discreet way to get him here. “I don’t want to. But we have to have a way to make sure that he doesn’t simply go and blab everything to Ginny or someone else. What would you suggest?”

Luna holds up a crystal sculpture so delicate and with so many different bits that Harry doesn’t see it whole for a minute. Then he does, and grins. “A muzzle. Excellent.”

“Luna? _Luna!_ You can’t! I love you! I never did anything to you!”

Harry wonders if Rolf notices the sheen of tears in Luna’s eyes as she turns around and faces him. “Not to me,” she says softly. “I know you love me. But I told you about all the problems the Snorkacks and the Humdingers were facing, and you didn’t _care_. They’re as important to me as I am, Rolf. Don’t you understand?”

“No, because I don’t see how destroying the Ministry is going to—”

Luna picks up the muzzle and blows on it, moving her head slowly but thoroughly from side to side, to make sure that her breath touches every piece of crystal.

Then she releases it. Rolf watches in what seems to be a kind of horrified trance as the muzzle drifts towards him. Then it wraps around his head and sinks into his skin, vanishing from sight so fast that Harry doesn’t get to see it actually shrink.

Rolf reaches up and feels around his neck and mouth, frowning. “What did it do?” he whispers.

“It’ll keep you from talking of our plans except to people who already know them,” Luna says. Her smile is melancholy. “So the exact same conditions we were already asking you to obey, but a bit more enforced this time.”

“I could still write—”

Luna produces a pair of crystal manacles, and breathes on them in the same way, and sends them floating over to Rolf. Rolf only watches with a resigned expression as they disappear into his skin. Strangely, he doesn’t seem as upset as Harry was expecting.

“You are skilled, my love,” he murmurs.

“I don’t always get to use that skill the way I want to,” Luna says, and turns to Harry. “Harry, could I have a word with you before you leave?”

Harry nods and walks after her into her bedroom. He thinks she will probably ask him how much longer this needs to go on. Being forced to literally muzzle and chain her husband isn’t what she signed up for, and Harry is sorry for it.

“Luna, I’m so—”

But she turns and collapses against him. Harry is so surprised that he barely manages to catch her, and then holds her up and blinks into her face as she gives a single heavy sob.

“Luna, what is it? Is it what Rolf did? It’s okay.” Harry gingerly hugs her around the shoulders. He really isn’t good at this, not after ten years of hacking at the Ministry and making no impression. “I’m sorry you had to chain him up like that, but I _Obliviated_ Ginny. If you want to get out of this, then I can do the same thing for you and Rolf.”

_Just please don’t ask me to stop. You know I can’t._

Luna sniffles and steps back from him, wiping at her eyes. “That’s not what I’m upset about.”

“What is it, then?” Harry lets her go, and then wonders if he should have hugged her again. But he honestly is terrible at this.

Luna takes out a photograph from her pocket. It’s a Muggle one, not a wizarding one. Harry still flinches when he looks at it. The beautiful unicorn in the picture isn’t any less dead, its legs sprawled out and its tongue dangling from between blood-flecked lips.

“What happened to it?” Harry whispers.

“A relation of the Parkinson family has been hunting unicorns in the Forbidden Forest.” Luna’s voice is thick with hatred. “I’ve been documenting it, and I finally had enough proof to turn in to the Ministry. But nothing happened. Today I asked the people in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement why, because I know that they’ll make sure killers of unicorns are brought to justice when no one else is. Harry, it’s because _he’s a pure-blood_.”

She flings herself at him again. This time, Harry catches her the right way and cradles her close against him, watching the photograph of the unicorn rather than Luna. The picture portrays clearly how much the beautiful creature suffered before it died.

“I’m not going to ask you to stop,” she finally says, when she’s mastered her sobs and pulled back to stare into his face. “Never, until they’re all stopped or dead.”

Harry gently kisses her forehead. “And what about Rolf?”

“I love him, too. But he can defend himself. He can make the choice not to get involved in politics if he doesn’t want to. _They_ have no choice.” Luna turns her head to the side as if she’s afraid she’ll start crying if she sees the photograph again.

Harry kisses her under the chin this time, and folds the photograph gently into his pocket. Luna watches him, but doesn’t try to stop him.

“I promise you they’re all going to pay,” he murmurs to her. “So many times over that in the end, they’ll suffer more than the unicorns have.”

Luna looks him in the eye long enough to believe him, and nods. Harry slips out of the house, with Rolf watching his back, then turns and Apparates. He has business to take care of.

First will have to be telling Ron about Ginny. That’s not the sort of secret Harry keeps from his best friends.


	23. The Poppy-Seeded Wine

“You have no right to do that to her.”

“I know I don’t have the right. But it’s what I did.”

Ron takes a long, complicated breath, not looking at Harry. They’re in the dining room where they just finished dinner. Hermione took the news of him _Obliviating_ Ginny in stride, but seemed sad about it; she’s just left the room. Ron is the one who’s been sitting in his chair and staring at the table for the last half-hour.

“She could have been dealt with some other way,” Ron whispers. “If you’d called me or Hermione. Hermione especially. She’s a Muggleborn, she’s directly affected by all this. If you’d let us talk to her.”

“I had no idea I was going to confront Ginny when I went over to Rolf and Luna’s house. I just had that note from Luna to come, and nothing else. Honestly, I thought she was sick. I didn’t know Ginny was even there.”

Ron lifts his head. “And you’re not even _sorry_ about it. That’s what kills me the most.”

“I can apologize for the necessity,” Harry tells him quietly. “But that’s all it would be. I can’t say I’m sorry for doing it, because I’m not.”

“And is it going to be the worth the cost, in the end?” Ron asks wearily. “Having our friends on opposite sides, maybe _Obliviating_ other good people, getting rid of _some_ things but not all? Is it going to be the worth the cost, Harry?”

“For me? Yes. I can’t do anything about prejudices people come up with in the future. If they all decide to start hating mooncalves tomorrow, nothing I can do. But with the Hallows, I’ll change the ones that are here.”

Ron lifts his head slowly. “And it’s going to affect _everyone_ who holds those prejudices. It doesn’t matter whether they’re pure-bloods or Muggleborns or members of the Sun Chamber. It’ll be absolutely everyone.”

Harry rolls his eyes at him. “It’s impossible to _actually_ differentiate between people you’re casting magic on based on blood status, or haven’t you listened to any of Hermione’s lectures yet?”

“I know that,” Ron says. “I was just—not thinking about it before. If someone I know holds those opinions but just has never said anything about them, then they’re literally going to be a different person after these spells are cast.”

“Yes.”

“That could include Ginny.”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t think she’ll change much, honestly. She doesn’t hate Muggleborns, she doesn’t think pure-bloods are superior. But she doesn’t understand why I’m so invested in changing things, and she’s _comfortable._ A lot more comfortable than she used to be when she was at Hogwarts or a child. People who are comfortable don’t want to change things, usually.”

“So she could change.”

“Yes.”

“ _Huh_.” Ron breathes out heavily, and then nods. “All right. I’m in this thing to the end, I promised you that already. But, Harry?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes I _really_ hate your methods.”

“You’re allowed,” Harry says gently.

*

“I summoned you for a reason, Lord Potter. I want to know what you think you’re _doing_.”

Harry only looks at Shafiq as if he has no idea what she means. “I am doing my best to make sure that the wizarding world is ready to accept me as its king. That includes taking care of rebellious elements.”

“But ending a great pure-blood line—making sure that its only Heir renounced his name and took up his mother’s—”

Harry shrugs and accepts a goblet of wine from a house-elf who appears and disappears in seconds. They’re in the middle of a shining, gold-draped room in yet another house the Kingmakers are using. Harry committed as much of it to memory as he could, so he could talk about it to Londer for her reports, but the maze of corridors between this room and the one he Flooed into is confusing. “What was I supposed to do, let an attempt to murder me and extort my allies go unpunished?”

“Find something that would leave pure blood alive! You could have sent Lord Malfoy to prison and simply had Heir Malfoy ascend in his place.”

“They broke my wards. They sacrificed a Muggle in a way that _is_ going to attract attention, and would have attracted much more if I hadn’t complained about it. They nearly killed me. They _did_ injure me. Explain to me, Lady Shafiq, why I should take that insult and leave _any_ of them standing.”

Shafiq stops pacing and stares at him. Harry lifts the goblet to his mouth and only pretends to sip at it. There’s a strong scent coming from it that confirms it isn’t as innocent as it appears.

He wants to sigh, but he doesn’t. Of course he expected Shafiq to betray him, but he didn’t expect it this soon, or this obviously. This is going to be inconvenient to figure out how to deal with.

“It’s true that you have little reason to love the Malfoys.” Shafiq is fumbling with her words, perhaps also at a loss for what to do until whatever potion or poison she’s put into his glass takes effect. “But to end an ancient family line like that, one which has been pure for centuries…”

“So no Malfoy ever married a half-blood or a Muggleborn? Or a Veela?” Harry probes carefully at the smell in his wine with his magic. It comes back with a soft impression of steam that only he can see. It’s a sleeping potion, then, nothing more. Good. He’ll pretend to react to it and see what happens next. He takes another, more generous pretend gulp.

Shafiq is relaxing, her eyelids creasing a little at the sides. “Of course not. And they would have been your allies if you had given them time to accept you. They might have been able to guide you in your choice of a bride.”

Harry fakes a yawn. “They—weren’t my allies. They would probably have introduced me to someone who would stab me in my sleep.”

Shafiq glances at him and modulates her voice. “I know it must feel that way. But there’s always time to change our minds and repair our mistakes. Why don’t you go in front of the Wizengamot and say that you’ve changed your mind about the penalty Heir Malfoy should pay? That it’s all right for him to resume his family name and become Lord Malfoy?”

“This matters—a lot to you,” Harry says, and fakes another yawn. “Are the Malfoys related to the Shafiqs recently?”

Shafiq sighs, probably because anyone with the right degree of inbreeding would know that without being told. Then she shakes her head and murmurs, “They are _pure_. I do not want to lose any other pure-bloods.”

“And you probably value me less than you do them because I have a Muggleborn mother.”

“Your level of power and your holding the Lordships of two families makes up for it. You will still make a fine king.”

Harry lets a few more incoherent mumbles out, and then permits his chin to droop onto his chest. Shafiq watches him with narrowed eyes, and then casts a few spells that make loud noises rip through the room. Harry jumps at the first of them and “chats” with her for a bit more, before his head droops again. He doesn’t let himself react to the next few, since Shafiq seems to be waiting for him to be utterly unconscious.

Shafiq breathes out deeply and leaves the room. Harry is a bit disappointed that he won’t get to see who she calls up on the Floo, but if they arrive and come back with her, he’ll at least get to see them.

As it turns out, there’s only one person who comes back with her, a tall man in an Unspeakable’s robes and hood. Harry delicately sniffs as much as he can without moving his nostrils. No, there’s no clues, even scent, that would enable Harry to recognize him.

“You are sure this is the best way?” The Unspeakable’s voice has a slight accent that both reminds Harry of Fleur’s and makes Harry even surer that he’s never met the bloke before.

“Yes, of course. You know that outright assassination attempts are both gauche and unworkable. Take him.”

“ _Gauche_ is the worse word for you, of course.” The Unspeakable sounds amused, and then his robes swish as he walks towards the couch that Harry is slumped on.

For a second, Harry considers letting the Unspeakable take him into the Department of Mysteries. That must be what Shafiq is angling for, a literally mysterious disappearance. But he would find it harder to get out of the Department than he did out of Malfoy Manor, and he wouldn’t have someone around to help him like Draco this time.

Instead, he stretches and _snaps_ his wandless magic around the Unspeakable as he gets closer, and then leaps off the couch and hides behind it.

The Unspeakable shrieks, because, like it mostly does when Harry doesn’t want to do something specific with it, his magic has taken the form of fire. Shafiq spins towards her companion, looking as if she thinks she should help him but has no idea how to do it.

Harry, meanwhile, is casting Binding Curses from behind the couch, and the Unspeakable falls over, still thrashing inside his burning cloak. Harry pulls his magic back to him. The flames stop, but not the bloke’s moans. He might be badly burned.

Amazingly, Harry can’t bring himself to care.

“ _Lord Potter_.” Shafiq faces him with her hands clasped around her wand and a very well-feigned look of shock on her face. “What is the _meaning_ of this? You fall asleep and then you come shouting awake and burn my guest—”

“The sleeping potion in my wine didn’t affect me,” Harry says dryly, and watches her eyes tighten for a second before she clamps that control down on herself that it seems all members of the Sun Chamber learn. “I heard what you said. And not that it matters compared to the rest, but in the interests of accuracy, I came awake blazing, not shouting. _Lady_.”

Shafiq doesn’t move for a few seconds. The Unspeakable stops moaning. From the hesitant motions of his hands, Harry thinks he’s reaching for a potion to treat the burns or kill the pain. The Binding Curse that hit him must not have been very strong.

“Then you know that we never intended you to be king.”

“It had crossed my mind.”

“I believe I understand your extermination campaign against the pure-blood families better now.” Shafiq readies her wand without lifting it. “I cannot allow you to leave knowing what you do.”

Harry shrugs. He never intended to let her leave, either. He’ll restrain her the way he did Pansy, _Obliviate_ her the way he did Ginny, or kill her the way he did Atlas. What happens is going to be up to her.

Shafiq abruptly kicks sideways, a strange dance-like step. Harry is moving before he realizes that she didn’t use that movement to launch a projectile at him or get herself out of his line of fire. Instead, it was to _conjure_ fire—or a ritual circle.

All over the floor, runes are lighting up, creating crackling lines and rings and geometric shapes. They’re ancient ones, embedded in the stone and not used for generations, or Harry would have sensed them the minute he walked into the room. A pentagram forms around Harry, one made of raging blue fire that doesn’t rise higher than his knees.

“Impressive,” Harry says, smiling at Shafiq.

“Thank you.” But her tone is stilted. It could be she just doesn’t like banter, but Harry doesn’t think that’s it. She’s wondering why he doesn’t look more worried.

Well, it’s true that Harry would prefer not to be trapped in a runic pentagram, and it’ll cost him something to get out of here. But as he raises his magic around him, he sees Shafiq’s eyes widen with understanding.

The runic pentagram is only any good if it _can_ trap him.

His magic rises, and rises, and rises. Phoenix wings unfold behind him, or the image of them, and Harry smiles at Shafiq and brings down his wings on the sides of the pentagram as hard as he can.

The room shrieks. The world around Harry spins, and flames are raging out of control somewhere behind his eyes. The surge of power from within him makes him bend over and vomit—

On the still-intact lines of the pentagram. But now they are smoking and black instead of running with blue fire.

“You d—don’t want to do that.” Shafiq is stuttering.

“Oh, yes, I really do,” Harry says softly, and he drains his magic outwards again and hurls it in a furious burst against the force holding him trapped.

Not helpless, though. That’s one thing his enemies will never find him.

This time, the unleashed power vibrates inside his ears with an enormous twanging noise, like the plucked string of a harp. Harry whirls the flames as a rope around his head as he vomits again. It feels as though someone has plucked out his liver and lungs and then put them back inside him in in the wrong order.

“Lord Potter! Stop this.”

Harry ignores her, and gathers himself for a third lunge. Then he sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and pulls in the power, shaping it into a shield. Only a second later does he think that his enemies’ magic might not be able to cross the runes, either.

But it turns out they can, and the Stunner from the Unspeakable crashes into his shield. Then it has nowhere to go, caught between his shield and the runes, and bounces and pools around like random red light.

Harry seizes control of it, and expands his shield outwards as hard and fast as he can, forcing the magic of the Unspeakable’s spell to lap over the runes.

“You fool! You can’t—”

It’s not clear whether Shafiq is talking to him or the Unspeakable. In the end, it doesn’t matter. The extra magic does it. The runes darken, and then the shattered marble flooring shoots away from Harry. Harry tucks himself inside the little protection the shield can still offer and rolls behind the couch again. He desperately needs a moment to catch his breath.

But from the sounds of pounding feet, he’s not going to get it. _Oh, well_. Harry bounces to his feet and aims his wand over the top of the couch. A Stunner makes the running person duck, and then Harry hurls the couch with a push of raw strength in his direction.

From his groan, the Unspeakable isn’t going to get up as quickly this time. Harry rolls and limps his way back to his feet, facing Shafiq. She’s standing in the middle of a runic circle that he knows is protective, and she’s staring at him with huge eyes.

“You can’t—you broke the pattern,” she says, and again she’s on the verge of stuttering.

Harry watches the runes begin to light up in jagged ways, and thinks he can guess what that means. “And the pattern was all connected? Breaking one part of it is going to damage the others?” Even as he speaks, there’s a sharp hissing and a steaming pop that sounds almost as if it’s coming from the Hogwarts Express, and one of the circles near the back of the room explodes. Harry watches blue sparks rain down and light one of the tapestries on fire.

“Yes! Of course it does!” Shafiq raises her wand, but then lowers it and shakes her head in disgust. “You are mad. Destroying pure families this way—”

Harry whips his wand at her, a silent Memory Charm. It stops at the edge of the circle protecting her. Harry assumed that had weakened as well when the other protections did, but it holds yet.

“But it does make certain decisions on my part easier.” Shafiq turns and hurls a Killing Curse at the Unspeakable before Harry can catch his breath, and he’s still. Then she flicks her wand once more, says, “Anti-Apparition wards with a built-in exception for me only. Good-bye, Lord Potter,” and vanishes.

Harry closes his eyes. It’s so hot, and so much raw, jagged magic is stinging the air, that it’s hard to think. He doesn’t know if he can break the wards that Shafiq raised given how exhausted he already is.

But he has to try.

He builds the shields first, rippling flames that grow faster and faster from the wild magic in the air, and wrap around him with shining flares of white and blue. Harry tucks himself into them until he’s all but wearing them, sleeves of smoke and a cloak of fire. Then he draws in heated air until his chest is small and compressed, and he _leaps_.

The roof falls in an instant after he does, and then there is only darkness.


	24. With Ambrosial Mouth

“Harry? Mate, can you hear me?”

Harry manages to drag his eyes slowly open. God, _everything_ hurts. He grunts. He hasn’t felt like this since the last time he fell off a building chasing a suspect and the Lightening and Cushioning Charms he cast didn’t make it in time. He tries to sit up.

“No.” Ron pushes him back into the bed, hissing at him as if he’s the one who’s a Parselmouth. “You barely Apparated out of whatever that place was in time. You’ve got a concussion, broken ribs, a fractured ankle, and an arm that refuses to stay in its socket. Hermione says that’s the magical exhaustion. Your wounds will start healing faster once you can get some rest.”

“Which might be a while, with the concussion.” Harry winces when he hears his own voice. The fire he called must have penetrated down his throat. “Damn. How long has it been since I Apparated in?”

“About an hour and a half. Hermione is over at the Burrow pretending that both of us didn’t hear the alarm and nothing’s wrong here, and I’m here pretending that I ate some bad chicken the other day and applying her cures. Like this.” Ron holds out a flask of some chalky white potion that seems to roll back and forth in Harry’s doubled vision.

After a second, he manages to focus on it, and chuckles. “I’ll have to say thank you.” There aren’t that many people who brew the potion that lets someone rest well with a concussion; most Healers just get rid of the concussion outright. But his magic is too weak right now to work with a Healer’s spells, and Ron and Hermione probably can’t take him to one anyway. Harry swallows the potion, and gasps as it feels like a bowling ball just rolled through his head and unscrambled his brain. “Why did she have it on hand?”

“With _you_ , mate? You can really ask that question? Now tell me what the hell happened.”

“I went to my usual Kingmaker meeting with Shafiq tonight. She’d either already made the decision to get rid of me or she intended to hide me away and produce me at some later time. The wine was drugged and the house was trapped with a bunch of runes meant to imprison me and keep her safe from my magic. I pretended to go along with the drugging, and an Unspeakable showed up. I couldn’t let him take me to the Department of Mysteries, so I attacked.”

“And then?”

“I destroyed the rune circle holding me. That weakened the structural integrity of the rest of them, which means—”

“It weakened the structural integrity of the house, too,” Ron says weakly, staring at him. “Shit, mate. _Shit._ ”

“She killed the Unspeakable. She intended the house to fall down on top of me and bury me alive, and if there was enough of our bodies left, she probably intended me to take the guilt for the Unspeakable’s murder, too.” Harry shakes his head. “Now I need to decide what to do. Part of that is going to rely on the stories she spreads.”

“I don’t think she’s saying anything yet. I mean, it’s only been an hour and a half. And do you think she _is_ going to say anything? She would have to reveal her part in catching you in that trap.”

Harry snorts and closes his eyes; his ribs are beginning to protest. Luckily, Ron is there with some draughts for pain, which Hermione also tends to stock up on. “I think she can say whatever she wants without revealing her part in it. She could pretend I betrayed her. She could pretend that I made her have to knock down the house. She could say that I lured her there and tried to kill _her_. The problem is, there are too many directions she could go in, and too many of them depend on whether she thinks I’m dead. I can’t predict that. So…”

“So?”

Harry laughs. He knows that it probably looks odd, not least because of the stretching bruise on his face that makes the corners of his mouth hurt. Ron actually steps back from the bed and eyes him.

“Mate?”

“Until now, I had to be subtle because I was trying to stay within the bounds of the law.” Harry grins at him. “I had to pretend to agree with people I despise, and go to my job, and mute some of my protests. _This_ has ended it. Shafiq knows the truth, she’ll tell other people, and no one who’s really part of the Sun Chamber will ever trust me again. I’m _free_.”

“And the rest of us?” Every one of Ron’s freckles seems to be standing out against his pale face.

“The rest of you are going to have to distance yourself from me on the surface.”

“I don’t _want_ to, mate.”

“I know, but it’s only on the surface, Ron. Most people have no idea anyway that you’ve been negotiating with the Dementors or participating in those protests. Some of that is just because they don’t pay attention to you—and they _should_ —”

“No, they shouldn’t. I’m sorry that I was ever jealous of you for your fame, mate. It’s awful.”

Harry reaches over and grips Ron’s hand. That’s an apology he’s made more than once as the years pass, and it’s one that he’s never really needed to. “Don’t worry about it. Anyway, it’s going to work to our advantage now. You and Hermione and Luna and Neville can keep doing exactly what you’re doing, and no one is going to notice anything different. You may have to denounce me at a few points, but that’s not going to be hard.”

“No one would believe us.”

“Then keep your denunciation half-hearted, and act like they’re only persuading you after a long struggle.” Harry shrugs. “That will probably convince them better, anyway. And you’ll have the chance to listen to them and get information from them without them realizing that’s what you’re doing.”

Ron nods, but his eyes are on Harry’s leg and ribs. There’s a deep rage hiding in the back of his gaze that Harry is going to have to persuade him to abandon if they’re going to get any work done.

“Hey.” Ron snaps his head up when Harry reaches out and squeezes his hand pointedly. “I’m still alive.”

“You _could_ have died. She _wanted_ to murder you.”

“Or maybe spirit me away into the depths of the Department of Mysteries, never to be seen again,” Harry says in his best ethereal voice. Ron still stares back with that cold fury. Harry sighs. “Listen to me, Ron. We’ll ruin the plan if it looks like you’re still too close to me after this.”

“Fuck the plan. I care about _you_.”

“I know, but I also care about the plan.”

Ron drums his fingers on his leg and glares around as if he hopes that Shafiq will pop up so that he can take out his rage on her. Finally, he gives Harry a grudging nod.

“Good.” Harry relaxes. “Then the first thing I want you to do is act like everything is fine until Shafiq makes some kind of announcement. Then, depending on whether people believe I’m dead or a fugitive, we’ll take it from there.”

“Fine,” Ron says through gritted teeth. Then he unexpectedly flings his arms around Harry in a way that makes him gasp, although he’s careful of the broken ribs. “Fuck, mate, I thought you _were_ dead when I saw you at first. You landed in this twisted position, and your hair is burned, and there are burns on your face. Shit. _Shit_.” His body shakes for a second, and then his grip on Harry redoubles. “The one good thing about working behind the scenes is that you shouldn’t have to face open confrontation as often. _Right_?”

He says it in a way that lets Harry know he’d _better_ put any plans for open confrontation off for a while. He nods solemnly and pats Ron’s back. “Right. If Shafiq and the others think I’m dead, then I need to work subtly. If they think that I’m alive but out there beyond the reach of the law somewhere, then confronting them would send them running to the Ministry.”

“Right,” Ron repeats. He hugs Harry one more time before letting go and sitting back like nothing happened. “What are you going to do about your houses and Kreacher if they think you’re dead and try to force them open?”

Harry snorts. “That got settled after I almost died from that blast of dragonfire five years ago. The will says that only you and Hermione have access, and that Kreacher is to go to one of you.”

“Right,” Ron says again, and this time, there’s nothing threatening about it. “We’ll see what the Ministry says in the morning.”

Harry smiles at him, understanding the implied command for what it is, and closes his eyes.

*

“Oh, this is a good one.”

Hermione’s voice is light, which doesn’t disguise the worry in it. Harry, limping back from the shower on an ankle that is mostly healed from its fracture, holds out his hand for the paper without dropping the towel that he’s using on his hair. Drying Charms leave it looking as though it’s made of dead worms.

When he’s done with his hair, Harry lowers the towel, and chuckles a little at the sight of the headline. _HARRY POTTER: DEMONIC DARK WIZARD._

“Skeeter is probably sorry that I don’t have any D’s in my name,” Harry told Hermione, and floats his towel back into the bathroom with a flick of his hand. “And this changes nothing.”

“The article says the Aurors are going to be searching for you, Harry.”

Harry shrugs. “That part is different, okay. But before, I was hiding my true intentions from them. The same thing is going to happen now.”

Hermione follows him into the kitchen with a puckered forehead. Harry is going to get his own breakfast, but checks when he sees bananas, yogurt, apples, and toast on the table. “Hermione?”

“Your ribs are still recovering. Don’t tell me that that _tiny_ amount of Ossification Potion has worked all the way.”

Harry nods and sits down at the table, smiles at her, and starts to read the paper. Hermione sits down next to him, frowning heavily at him.

“It’s not like I _chose_ to have someone kidnap me, try to drug me, and then trap me and blame me for that house falling down,” Harry murmurs without looking up at her. The article says that the house belonged to the de Violet family, who are related to the Shafiqs through marriage and some distant blood connection. They don’t have a seat in the Sun Chamber, but there are a few Wizengamot members with a connection to them, too. Harry smiles tightly. So, the links between the Kingmakers and the Wizengamot were there all the time.

“Harry…”

“Yes?” Shafiq claims that she found out about Harry’s “mad” efforts to establish himself as King of the wizarding world and overthrow the Sun Chamber. She invited him to the de Violet home, supposedly, to beg him to end the madness, and to trap him and hand him over to the Ministry if he refused to stop. But when he broke the runic circle and killed “my dear friend, Unspeakable Edward Selwyn,” then she fled, knowing she had no chance against him.

“ _He is incredibly powerful, Lady Shafiq says,_ ” Harry murmurs, and looks up from the article. “Yes, Hermione?”

“They know exactly what you’re after now, and what you can do to them,” Hermione says. Her face is tight and still. “We’ve lost.”

Harry snorts. “They _still_ don’t know what I’m after, Hermione. Shafiq likely thinks I was trying to destroy the Sun Chamber. People who believe her will think that I’m trying to be King. What I want is completely out of their comprehension, because they’d never try to do it themselves.”

“But—they’re not _stupid_.”

“No. What they are is prejudiced. Say that what I’m trying to do did occur to someone from the Sun Chamber. They would never believe that I had the power to pull it off, since I’m the son of a Muggleborn woman. And other people would never believe it because they judge my ambitions by their own. Why would I destroy the Ministry, instead of trying to rise to the top of it? That’s what _they_ would do.”

“I suppose. I just don’t understand how their prejudice can overcome their logic like that.”

“You said it yourself, Hermione, lots of wizards don’t have an ounce of logic.” Harry puts the paper aside so he can eat his breakfast. “And if prejudices were logical in the first place, you could just argue them out of existence.”

Hermione nods, her lips pressed together in a fierce frown. Harry welcomes that, honestly. It means that she’s less likely to start scolding him or wondering how she can do dangerous things to support him when she’ll have to denounce him in public.

“Have you thought about how the Weasleys are going to take this?” Hermione asks, when she’s come back from wherever her thoughts took her.

“Well, we know that George is on our side already. I think Molly and Arthur will probably be upset. Percy…” Harry has to shrug. He doesn’t hate Percy, but he’s not close to him, either, especially since Percy appears to think that the Ministry is redeemable. “Ginny might reach out to me. I’m not planning to answer her.”

“And Bill?”

Harry grins a little. “He’s on our side in spirit, Hermione. If you’d heard how much he’s talked to me and Ron about how people turn away from him with a shudder when they see his scars, or how some people gape at Fleur and Victoire and Dominique and others think they’re casting the Imperius Curse on them by being part-Veela, then you’d know.”

“Why has he never talked about that when I was around?”

“Fleur doesn’t like swearing. I think Bill thinks you don’t, either.”

“Tell him that I have no objections to _reasonable_ swearing.” Hermione folds her arms and nods as if she could possibly lift her nose higher into the air than it is right now.

“You’ll have to tell him yourself. We can’t risk him seeing me until we know for sure where he stands.”

“Right.” Hermione hesitates. “Charlie?”

“He’s made himself so at home in Romania that he only cares about things in Britain insofar as it affects his family,” Harry replies. Now and then he and Charlie send letters to each other, but it’s always about dragons and other creatures. “I think he might come back if Molly is grieving enough, but he won’t get involved in the fight.”

Hermione nods. “I always wondered why he felt like he had to leave. I mean, he was a blood traitor in some people’s eyes, but he could have made a place for himself here. Percy has.”

Harry shrugs noncommittally. He has his guesses about Charlie, but they’re private and might not be right, and it feels wrong to share them even with Hermione. “Maybe it’s just that there are so many restrictions on what someone can do when they’re studying creatures. A lot more in Britain than in Romania.”

Hermione half-smiles. “When you’re done, they’ll be gone.”

Harry nods and swallows the rest of his pumpkin juice. “Ready to play the part of a shocked and grieving best friend who’s still trying to decide where her support should fall?”

“As much as I can ever be,” Hermione says softly.

She reaches across the table after a second to squeeze his hand. Harry squeezes back, firmly.

*

“I just can’t believe Harry would do something like this.”

Harry sighs as he listens from behind the closed door of Ron and Hermione’s bedroom. He hates the thick sound of tears in Molly’s voice, but she was always going to cry when she found out the truth. Shafiq just made it happen earlier than it would have otherwise.

“I know,” Hermione says. “It really doesn’t make much sense. Something else must have happened, but we’ll never get that _Lady_ Shafiq to admit to it.”

“Harry has been acting strange lately,” Ginny’s voice adds. “Like all that business with Simon. Do you think there’s a chance that he could be under the Imperius Curse? Or something like it? I mean, I know he can resist the actual Imperius, but a potion?”

“Or possessed.” Arthur’s voice is deep and sad. “I always wondered whether there was another artifact like the diary our poor Gin ran into out there.”

“Not _exactly_ like the diary, Dad! It couldn’t be.”

“I didn’t mean _exactly_ like. I only meant like.”

“I don’t know. Harry’s behavior hasn’t changed that much in the past few weeks and months. I don’t think he was possessed.”

That’s Ron, the calmest of everyone in the room. It’s strange, Harry thinks. Ron isn’t really as good at keeping the truth concealed as Hermione, and it’s his family, but he’s going along with what they have to do better. Maybe because Hermione keeps trying to think of a way for Harry to get his name cleared, and Ron’s accepted that they can’t do that and they should simply work with what’s in front of them.

“I don’t know what we can do for him…”

Harry backs away quietly from the door. It sounds as though Molly’s fretting will take up most of the rest of the conversation, and that means he has “permission” to leave.

And it’s time to go talk to someone he didn’t have much hope of being able to persuade before now. It’ll take a honeyed tongue to do it at all, but with his new outlaw status, Harry is a lot more hopeful.

_Good thing it’s not full moon._


	25. Clasped the Hand

“Who’s there?” The growling voice comes from behind a tree and seems to echo in every direction.

“Someone who doesn’t think your shtick is scary,” Harry says plainly. He had to Apparate five times to get to this pine forest, just in case someone from the Ministry is trying to track him. In reality, from having been an Auror, he knows that Apparition-tracking spells almost never work that well, but if he didn’t do it, he would never hear the end of it from Hermione.

The growl cuts off, sounding confused. Harry smiles and continues waiting. He’s in a clearing created by fire spells. He takes out his wand and trims a few more plants back with flames, just in case.

Someone moves next to the tree nearest the flames. Harry cuts off the spell and waits patiently as the woman steps slowly forwards.

She has long, unbound, uncut hair, like most werewolves, but unlike some of them she isn’t dressed in dirty rags to show her disdain for human clothing. She’s cut back her nails, too, and her eyes stare straight at him instead off to the side. Harry approves. She did all the cringing and dirtiness before because she had to, to convince people in her pack she wasn’t a threat.

But Fenrir Greyback has been dead for a few years now. It would be a waste of her potential if she kept it up.

“Know, human, that my teeth and nails can scar you even when it is not the full moon.”

“Good to see you, too, Grace. You should know that I’m a fugitive wanted by the Ministry now, so I take your threats even less seriously than I did.”

For a tense second, Harry doesn’t think she’ll drop the drama, but then, Grace sighs and straightens. Her hair is white because she dyes it, and her eyes are golden because she concentrates all the force of her will on them remaining that color, the way Greyback concentrated all his will on his fingernails becoming claws. “All right, Potter. Tell me what you want.”

“That open alliance I told you I could probably never offer your pack? I can offer that now.”

“How does your being a fugitive help us?”

Harry shrugs. “It means I don’t have to play nice and act like the rules matter to me and hide my correspondence with you anymore. However, I’m not going to be able to get you more rights, either. The Ministry and the rule of law in the wizarding world as we know it is going to be gone in a few months at most. So the question is, do you still want the benefits of an alliance?”

Grace stands there and blinks until Harry wonders if she got hit in the head by a falling house recently, too. Then she says reluctantly, “I suppose you’d better come back to visit. There are a few new young ones since last time, so you might have to use a few spells.”

Harry nods, not surprised, and walks beside Grace as she heads away from the clearing into the dark forest. “Nice place you have here.”

Grace snarls at him half-heartedly over one shoulder. Harry just grins.

After they step around several pits, drop-traps, and rope nooses, they reach the similar clearing, burned out of the forest, where the pack waits. They all stare straight at Harry when he walks in. _There was a time when that would have intimidated me,_ Harry thinks, as he nods in a friendly fashion to all the green and gold and amber stares and sits down on a log carved into a seat. It’s far from the fire, which means far from a position of prestige, but with what Grace said about young werewolves, it isn’t going to take long for someone to challenge him anyway.

“What are you doing here, _human_?”

Harry leans back to study the man confronting him. He wears jeans, which makes Harry think he was probably a Muggle before he was turned. “Relaxing.”

The werewolf snarls the way Grace resisted doing. He has orange eyes and nails he hasn’t kept cut back. He sharpens them on a tree above Harry’s head. Harry leans a little to the side to avoid the falling bark shavings.

“I could infect you.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Harry says calmly, ignoring the way the nails are suddenly resting on his shoulders. “It’s not full moon.”

The man makes a deep, full-throated, inhuman sound, and starts to press down with his nails. Harry, who has been waiting for an openly aggressive move so the rest of the pack can’t claim he started it, casually turns his wrist. The young werewolf goes flying and rolls to a stop near a similar carved log seat on the opposite side of the clearing.

He scrambles up at once, a bellow of rage coming from his throat. Harry just shakes his head at him. “That makes you sound more like a cow than a wolf, you know.”

The werewolf charges him again. By now, the others, even the ones who don’t know Harry personally, have moved out of the way, which means that the young one hits no one when Harry tosses him back into the log. “Get some sanity,” Harry advises him mildly as he watches him stagger slowly back to his feet.

“I am _stronger than you_!”

“Physically, of course. But why does that matter when I don’t intend to let you touch me?”

Incredibly, the jeans-wearing prick charges at him _again_. Harry sighs and this time, hangs him upside-down, connecting the invisible magical rope to the nearest tree. There are enough snickers that he suspects the man isn’t popular and he’s pleased the rest of the pack more than angered them.

“If this is the quality of the recruits you’re making lately, you ought to think more carefully about who you bite,” he tells Grace when she stalks up beside him.

Grace sighs. “Another one of the young ones bit him more in revenge than anything. He’s a Muggle who still doesn’t really believe in the capabilities of wizards.” She pauses, watching, like Harry, to see if the werewolf will go on struggling as Harry drops him to the ground. But he doesn’t, even though Harry made sure not to drop him on his head. He gets back to his feet and slinks off without a look at them.

“Everyone.” Grace can command attention with just a flash of her teeth. “This is Harry Potter, as some of you know. He has come to discuss the benefits of an open alliance.”

The staring, lounging werewolves look fully at him. Harry nods to them. “If any of you read the _Daily Prophet_ , you may know that I’m an outlaw right now. I confronted an enemy who tried to drug me and kidnap me, and I fought back instead of going along with her plans. So fighting for a place for you in recognized wizarding society isn’t something I can do.”

“What good are you?” That’s a naked woman with matted grey hair who looks more than half wolf even now.

“That’s what you have to ask for yourself. I can tell you some things I can offer, though.”

Grace gestures for him to go ahead. Harry clasps his hands in front of him. “I can warn you of what’s going to come in the future after the Ministry’s collapse, and the safe places that you can be. I can get you some wands, registered ones that were taken from criminals now in Azkaban; they have no reason to think I’ll strike at that room, and no reason to update the wards on it anytime soon. I can offer you my own personal support in building shelters if you want them. I can give you access to Wolfsbane.”

“And what do you want in return?” Grace sounds wary, as well she might.

Harry gives her a smile that makes her step backwards. He wonders why. It’s not half as threatening as the grins that some of the werewolves keep trying to give him. “For you to create chaos and serve as distractions. Let them guess, rightly, that I’m allied with the Whitemount Pack, if they want. Given how much people fear you, a few raids would go a long way.”

“You don’t want anyone bitten?”

“I know that you can’t really do anything purposeful on the full moon, anyway, unless you’re taking Wolfsbane. But no, I’d prefer not. Maybe you could scar a few pure-bloods if you can catch them.”

Grace’s eyes glitter. “Which ones?”

Harry taps his pocket. “I’ll write you a list of the Lords and Ladies I don’t care about before I leave.”

“I don’t understand,” says another young werewolf, although he cowers a bit when Harry looks inquiringly at him. “Aren’t _you_ a member of the Sun Chamber? Why do you want them hunted down and scarred?”

“Because I’m not really pure-blooded enough for them, and now they’ve betrayed me,” Harry says. “I mean, yes, I was planning to betray _them_ first, but. Semantics. They can die now for all I care.”

The young one still looks bewildered, but at least Grace is thinking about it. “That means that you don’t plan to leave any pure-bloods alive for the rebuilding effort to rally around?”

“Oh, a few. My allies, the ones I’ll put on a different list and would be _very upset_ should any scarring happen to,” Harry says softly, and watches with some satisfaction as Grace pales. “But the others need to die.”

“Why?”

“They betrayed me.” Harry speaks the words slowly this time, in case she’s having trouble catching up.

“And for that they deserve to die?”

“Do the wizards who denied you wands and confined you to the woods deserve to die?” Harry asks, and watches as a wave of growling and bristling goes all around the circle. “Unless you want me to start questioning your motives, you would be will-advised not to start questioning mine.”

That gets him some lowered heads and eyes. Harry nods. He just wants to make sure that the Whitemount Pack will do what he tells them and not step out of line to go after people he likes, such as the Weasleys or Neville. Whether they feel contempt for him in their heart of hearts or anything like that, he’s beyond caring about.

“How are we going to find wands that fit us?” demands the jeans-wearing, formerly Muggle werewolf Harry threw across the clearing a while ago. “What about those of us who can’t perform magic?”

At least Grace looks embarrassed. Harry really hopes that she argued against the decision to admit him to the pack. He would hate to think an ally has such terrible taste. “Then you won’t be able to cast spells. That doesn’t mean you can’t fight in other ways.”

“What other ways?”

“Whatever ways the pack has trained you in.” Harry feels the temperature around him lowering; his magic is getting out of control. He tucks it back inside his body and sighs. “Whatever ways you use when you’re fighting another werewolf or a Muggle for control.”

“That kind of thing is pretty useless against a wizard,” the man mutters. “You just proved that yourself a few minutes ago.”

“No, I proved that charging a powerful wizard with nothing but your hands and teeth is foolish.” Harry stands restlessly. The Whitemount Pack is better than most of his other allies in that he can make deals with them and be relatively sure they’ll keep them, but he’s not in the mood to sit around providing their brains for them. “I’ll go now, Grace. I need to make sure that room in the Ministry with all the wands stored is open, among other things. I’ll send you an owl when I’m ready. Don’t eat it.”

Grace nods and manages to turn the nod into a half-bow. At least Harry thinks that isn’t due to his status as a Lord. “We’ll await it, Potter.”

Harry nods back and then turns and Apparates right out of the clearing; he knows what Ron and Hermione’s house looks like well enough for that. He lands and sighs as he feels his magic tremble inside his body. He probably did use more than he strictly needed to when confronting the Whitemount Pack.

“Mate?”

Harry looks up with a smile when he sees Ron standing in the doorway of the Apparition room. “Hey, Ron. How’s it going with your family?”

“Well, Mum and Dad are upset, obviously. Percy and Ginny are both some combination of stressed and ‘I told you so.’” Ron hesitates once. “You know how George is…”

“What about Bill?” Harry asks quietly. There’s a reason that Ron is pausing like this when he shouldn’t have any spectacular news about the Weasleys to give.

Ron seems to brace himself, the way he used to before he started chess with a brand-new opponent in the Gryffindor common room. “Bill is here.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. But then again, Bill probably picked up enough from the conversations-slash-rants he’s had with Ron in the past to know that Ron and Hermione are irrevocably on Harry’s side, and it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that Harry might be here, just someone smarter than most of their enemies.

“All right,” he says. “Do you want me to talk with him someplace that isn’t your kitchen?”

Ron looks like he wants to slump over. “Please.”

Harry pats Ron’s shoulder as he walks past him. When he opens the door to the kitchen, Bill spins around and faces the door in a way that puts the scars on his face in sharp relief. Harry honestly isn’t sure if that’s intentional or not.

They stare at each other for a moment, and then Harry asks, “Well?”

“I was waiting for you to cackle evilly and try to take my blood to boil in a potion,” Bill admits. His voice is husky; he seems to have acquired a few more werewolf-like signs in the last few years, and that deepness to his voice is one of them. “But since you don’t want to, you don’t have to.”

Harry smiles. “I would like to talk with you, but not here. Do you want to come to a safehouse I know?” He’s already reaching for one of the small coins he carries with him on a regular basis, a permanent Portkey that will take them to a stuffy little house owned by Sirius’s more paranoid ancestors.

“Yes.”

Bill agrees so confidently that Harry’s own confidence increases that this isn’t something he’ll have to end up regretting. He holds the Knut out, and Bill comes out and grasps it as Harry speaks the relevant phrase. “Voldemort’s scaly arse.”

When they come out of the whirl of Portkey transportation, Bill is gaping at him. Harry laughs as he puts the Knut away. “No, I didn’t fancy him. I just wanted to make sure I had a passphrase I wasn’t ever, ever going to say by accident while holding onto that particular coin.”

Bill nods and follows Harry through the silent, dark corridors into a tiny kitchen. It’s not unlike the one at Grimmauld Place, although this house is all one floor and considerably smaller. Luckily, Harry knows enough general cleaning charms now that he doesn’t need to bring Kreacher with him every time he wants to use the place, even if the elf would be thrilled. Harry waves his wand and murmurs under his breath, and Bill yelps a little as the cobwebs are abruptly blasted away from under his chair.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Harry summons the kettle and tea that he keeps here and prepares a pot that he hopes isn’t too musty-smelling. Bill stares at his back the entire time. Harry forces himself to ignore that, even if it also feels like someone aiming a dagger there. It’s _not_ , not really, and it’s time his paranoia respected that.

When he puts a cup in front of Bill, Bill drinks it without reaching for the sugar or milk Harry also put out, and says decisively, “I want to join you. Openly.”

“You can’t right now. I’m not doing things openly.”

“Then let me disappear with you. Use a house or something like this.” Bill takes a deep breath. “The goblins warned me that the Wizengamot is on the verge of passing a bill that will make creatures, those with creature blood, or marked by a creature, non-citizens.”

Harry stares at him over the steam rising from his own cup of tea. “I didn’t hear anything about such a bill, and I thought we had pretty good surveillance on that.” Luna would have let him know, if no one else.

“This is a hasty one.” Bill tightens his hands into fists until the cup trembles a little. “I think they’ve rushed it through because they believe that you’re going to turn to people who have creature blood to help you.”

Harry nods slowly. It will also affect the free house-elves, he realizes, and they are known allies of his. They’re more frightened of Harry himself than he thought.

Either that, or someone is putting the pieces together and realizing that Harry more than likely wants to lead a rebellion, although Harry can only hope they don’t realize his ultimate goal.

“All right. Then why don’t you look around this house and see if it would suit you? I’ll see about enchanting some other Portkeys if it does. Are you going to pull Victoire out of Hogwarts?”

Bill’s shoulders have relaxed, and don’t tense up again even as he grimaces. “We’ll have to. She won’t like it, but…” He hesitates and looks at Harry. “There isn’t going to be a Hogwarts in a few months, is there?”

“It will depend on a lot of things,” Harry says quietly. That’s not a lie. He doesn’t intend to do anything to affect the building of Hogwarts itself, but Hermione’s plans will affect the bindings of their house-elves, and the Elder Wand will affect at least some of the people who reside there. “I’m sorry to deny her an education.”

“The Ministry would already be doing that. Non-citizens of the British wizarding world can’t attend Hogwarts.” Bill sighs out. “Thanks. I’ll explore the house. Can you show me the spell you used later? We’ll probably need to do that on at least a few of the rooms.”

Harry waves his hand to give permission, and Bill disappears down the corridor. Harry spends a little time thinking. The bill isn’t entirely unexpected in the sense that he thought they would do something like this, just not so soon.

And it means he has one path open that he wasn’t considering before, given that he thought of them as solidly part of the establishment.

Harry grins. It’s time to see if the goblins can forgive him for breaking into Gringotts.


	26. In Mine

Harry strolls through the doors of Gringotts, merrily ignoring the goblins that turn to stare at him. He’s wearing a thick glamour that makes his feature seem to shift every five minutes and will confuse wizards, but it does less than nothing against goblin magic or goblin eyes.

Harry is kind of counting on that, actually.

By the time Harry makes his way to the counters at the back of the bank’s entrance, he has a large, silent crowd of goblins following him. A few other wizards glance over, but none pay enough attention to realize that what’s happening is actually unusual instead of “some creature thing.” Harry wants to sigh, but he’s smiling too widely for that.

“How dare you come here?” hisses the goblin Harry stands in front of. He’s a tall member of his species with iron-grey eyes and a hand that keeps flickering down to something under the counter, probably an axe. “You are to conduct all business from a distance and never enter the bank unless accompanied by other Aurors on official business, Mr. Potter. _That was the deal._ ”

“It was the deal when I was a proper law-abiding member of the Ministry, and the Ministry also wasn’t passing bills that would limit the rights of people other than humans. I have information for you. Do you want it or not?”

The goblin in front keeps glaring, but the crowd behind him starts to shift. Harry can tell that someone is making their way to the front of it. He keeps paying attention to the grey-eyed goblin, and he keeps beaming.

“This matter should not be handled here,” says a goblin with a brilliant scarlet cap who appears next to Harry’s left arm. “Let us invite Mr. Potter into the back of our _business_.”

Harry notices their smiles. They all assume that he’ll never emerge again if they invite him back there, or only after he’s agreed to turn all his gold over to the bank as reparations, which is something they’ve demanded and Harry has never granted.

Harry smiles back and strolls away with a smaller crowd around him this time, about nine goblins. The one with the scarlet cap leads, now and then glancing back at him as if to make sure that he doesn’t run away. Harry hears the scrape of steel and whetstones from behind him.

It doesn’t matter. The goblins haven’t turned him in right away to the Ministry, and that means that Harry was right to assume they aren’t really on the Ministry’s side. They’re on their own, and they have their own methods of gaining vengeance and waiting for it.

That’s a trait Harry intends to use now.

The goblin with the scarlet cap unlocks the door to a room that, when he steps inside it, Harry can see is made entirely of iron. Iron works to neutralize a lot of magic; it’s more resistant than it should be to melting under the pressure of fire curses, for example. From lines in the walls, Harry also assumes that the iron plates that make up the walls can shift out into weapons.

It would do absolutely nothing to stop his magic. But Harry appreciates the thought.

The goblins separate, five of them, including the leader with the scarlet cap, forming up in front of him, four behind. Harry already has his magic watching out for threats, and he’ll know in an instant, without looking, if any of the goblins behind him lift an axe or start to make the iron plates move. For now, he concentrates on the goblin with the scarlet cap, who has her arms folded.

“Who told you that you could come here?” she says, and champs her pointed teeth together.

“The Ministry’s desperate tactics that are going to backfire on them soon. And which would affect the smooth running of your bank.”

“The Ministry would not dare interfere with us.”

“Then why did you tell Bill Weasley that this proposed law would?”

The goblins pause. Harry waits. Perhaps they didn’t know that Bill would pass that information on to him, or perhaps there are divisions among the goblins themselves on the best way to respond to the Ministry.

The one with the scarlet cap says finally, stiffly, “It’s not certain.”

“Can you afford to wait until it’s certain? I know goblin history has primarily been reactive, but this once, I thought you might like to be proactive.”

There’s a rush of angry muttering and shifting and more scraping from behind him. Harry ignores it, eyes still fixed on the goblin with the scarlet cap. She raises a clawed hand, and the sounds stop.

“You have little to offer us, Potter. Even your gold would be forfeit if we lived under laws more understanding of those without human blood.”

Harry tips his head, an acknowledgement instead of an agreement. “I can offer you enough information to ride out the coming storm. If you aid me in causing enough of a distraction that the Ministry can’t pass this law right away, then I’ll promise to spare you as much as possible in the changes that are coming.”

The goblins stare again. Harry waits. He finds it no more intimidating than he does when confronting a pack of werewolves.

“You threaten us, again,” says the leader at last. Her voice is thick with what Harry regretfully thinks is anger instead of astonishment. “You expect us to be—to be your _servants._ The same arrogance exhibited by the Ministry. Why would we make a pact with you?”

“You don’t have to,” Harry says. “But you know as well as I do that this bill is going to make life more difficult for you.”

“We already aren’t citizens of Britain. We already can’t carry wands.”

“But until now, there was a silent agreement that there were still some things you could do and some things the Ministry would look the other way on. That isn’t going to apply anymore. The Ministry is going to put into law that it _can’t_ look the other way. Do you imagine that’s going to make things _easier_ for you? Instead of harder?”

The goblins exchange glances. They’re muttering to each other in Gobbledygook. Harry waits. He can’t do anything more to influence them unless they come up with some actual argument that he can respond to. He’s said what he came to say.

Finally, the goblin with the scarlet cap turns to him. “We will ally with you if you will give all your gold to the bank.”

“No.”

“ _You_ are the one who wants _our_ help, human!”

Harry nods. “But not enough to sacrifice everything I own.”

There’s a longer series of waving arms and yelling this time, although none of it in English. Harry waits in the center of the room, his magic watching over his shoulder so that the goblins behind him can’t surprise him. It seems like a long time before the one in the scarlet cap says, “We demand another price.”

“You can ask for it. That doesn’t mean I’ll grant it.”

“You are a fugitive from the Ministry,” the goblin says, fast and precise. “But you still have access to some of the inner rooms of the Ministry until they change the wards and update the security procedures.”

Harry nods, wondering if they want wands, like the werewolves. But it turns out to be both simpler and more complicated than that.

“The Department of Mysteries stole artifacts from us. We will provide you with their descriptions and their names. You will go into that Department and fetch them for us. You have a week.”

Harry can’t help smiling. “Agreed.”

The goblin with the scarlet cap eyes him suspiciously all the time that the other goblins are preparing a list of artifacts and what they know about the Unspeakables who took them. But Harry remains silent. He doubts they’ll be able to figure out that he’s hated the Department of Mysteries ever since Sirius died there.

And there’s always been a sort of (un)professional rivalry between Aurors and Unspeakables. This is going to be a positive _pleasure_.

*

Harry walks into the Ministry under the same shifting glamour that he used to enter the bank. As he thought, they don’t have wards up against that kind of thing. Too expensive, requiring too powerful a wizard to cast.

 _Although I’ll bet they hire them done after this,_ Harry thinks with a chuckle as he steps into the lift that’s waiting for him and hits the number nine. It’s late at night, and most of the Ministry workers have gone home, but there’s always someone working in the Department of Mysteries.

The lift lets him off into a blank black corridor. Harry shrugs. They’ve probably changed the setup of this department more times in the last few years than the rest of the Ministry combined has.

He makes sure that his wand is ready and loose in his hand, but doesn’t immediately lift it. He walks forwards instead, and comes to a single blue door set into a black wall. Harry knocks. He hears a grumble and someone swearing behind the door before footsteps start towards him.

“What do you want?” the apprentice in robes of pale silver snaps as she opens the door. “If you have any business that requires the personal attention of an Unspeakable, then you’ve come to the wr—”

Harry Stuns her wordlessly and lowers her gently to the ground. The Unspeakables have wards up that tell them whenever a spell like that is cast within the Department, but Harry cast it beyond the threshold, and allowed the ambient aura of the Stunner to knock her unconscious more than the magic itself.

That means that it won’t last as long, though. Harry moves quickly to her desk and sweeps drawers open, looking for notes on the latest department redesign.

 _There they are._ They’re in a red ledger, like the ones that Harry remembers some Unspeakables bringing to trials years ago. Harry flips through them and quickly finds the notation he’s looking for. Unspeakables might alter the arrangement of the individual rooms in the department a lot, but they always group artifacts the same way, by the race they were stolen, excuse him, borrowed from.

Harry hears footsteps coming down a corridor from further back in the department. Harry flicks a Disillusionment Charm at the Stunned apprentice and walks towards the corridor. The Unspeakable who’s waiting there peers at him in a way that suggests nearsightedness to Harry, even though their face is covered with a cloak. He ought to know the signs.

“Eh? You’re not Rosalina. Where is she?”

“She got a blast in the face from an artifact she was studying,” Harry says, something he knows happens all the time. “Listen, there’s not a lot of time before I have to be out of here, and they’re very _hot_ on the artifacts being there on the dot of midnight. Can we move?”

As often happens, an air of authority works better than most spells. The Unspeakable turns and walks alongside him, but does ask, “Who is _they_? What artifacts?”

Harry gives the Unspeakable an incredulous stare. As he thought would probably be the case, this one’s grey robe is pale, although not silver. He’s a full-fledged member of the Department of Mysteries, but not a high-ranking one. _They_ don’t stay at night. “Do you think I can tell you? I’m _deep grey_ , man.”

For a moment, he gets peered at again, and then the Unspeakable says, “But I can see your face.”

“Which just changed,” Harry says, which is the truth. “See? I’m so deep grey that _I don’t get a cloak_.”

That impresses the wizard in a way it wouldn’t if more of them had an ounce of logic, as Hermione would say. He nods and trots alongside Harry as he makes his way to the room where they’ve collected goblin artifacts. Harry’s memorization of the route through turning doors and rooms and spinning staircases seems to impress him.

“Goblins? Why them in particular?”

“Don’t you _know_?”

“Know what?”

“These artifacts are the key to stopping a goblin rebellion.” Harry lowers his voice so that the Unspeakable leans towards him as they pass under an arch that promptly spins like a Muggle revolving door, and opens a whole new corridor on the other side. “The goblins need to look at them and be hypnotized into believing that they’ll get them back, or they’ll cut off all access to the bank on Monday.”

“They can’t do that!” the Unspeakable cries, clutching at what’s probably hair.

Harry sighs dramatically and draws the list of artifacts the goblins gave him out of his pocket. “Hence why I need these.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Deep Grey,” the Unspeakable says, and bows humbly to him, then runs ahead of Harry down a corridor, stepping only on certain tiles. Harry follows in the exact same pattern, only to find a clock facing him where a door should be. The Unspeakable reaches up and spins its hands, babbling all the time. “You’ll tell them I was helpful? That they should promote me past Pale Grey as soon as they can?”

Harry blinks as the clock splits in two and the glass panels over the pendulum swing back like windows. “I’ll tell them you were helpful _if I get out of here with the artifacts on time._ ”

“Right, right, of course!”

The Unspeakable ushers Harry into the room. It’s full of shelves that seem to lean towards the center of the circular floor, but probably really don’t; that’s the architecture of the department dizzying Harry like most of the rest of the place. The Unspeakable runs around, collecting blades and axes and small metallic spheres and what resembles nothing so much as a cup made out of a skull off the shelves with blinding speed.

“Anything else?” Harry finds the list snatched out of his hand so the Unspeakable can read it. “Oh, the Sword of Gryffindor…we don’t store that down here, you know, Deep Grey.” For the first time, a hint of suspicion creeps into his voice. “The Hogwarts Headmasters have never let it out of their possession.”

“Honestly?” Harry leans in, and the Unspeakable nods, seeming enchanted. “I think the goblins put it on the list just to fuck with us.”

The Unspeakable laughs and hands Harry the bag of the artifacts. “It was nice to work with you, Deep Grey. Please commend me to your superiors.”

Harry nods, a pleasant smile on his face, and turns back towards the clock they came in by. The Unspeakable makes a sharp noise. Harry doesn’t have to turn around to know that there’s now a drawn wand pointed at him.

“A real Deep Grey would know that you couldn’t go back through the clock.”

Harry sighs. _Well, the disguise was nice while it lasted._ He flexes his magic, and a shelf that leans out from the wall comes crashing down on the Unspeakable. From the groans, no one’s died. But Harry has to leave.

He scans the walls for other doors and finds one standing opposite him. He moves over and tugs on the knob without much hope. If it’s an entrance like the one with the clock, then it would require special Unspeakable knowledge to manipulate.

Instead, it opens. It even shows him a view of the lifts that take you from the regular Ministry down to the Department of Mysteries. But these look incredibly far away, down a corridor that keeps bulging and rippling and stretching back and forth.

Harry takes a deep breath and draws his wand. He doesn’t like doing this, when he’s still a little magically exhausted from escaping the house that Shafiq tried to turn into his death-trap, but he’s going to attempt it anyway. “ _Ignis finite_!”

The Ending Fire rips out of him, and runs up and down the corridor, tearing and melting away pieces of the wall to show regular stone and a flat floor. This spell ends all magic, forcing it back into a non-magical state. Harry focuses his gaze on the lifts and runs, not daring to look down at the wildly seesawing reality under his feet.

Once his foot plunges down into nothingness. Harry hits the stone that’s just beyond that, rolls, and pulls himself immediately back upright, and _runs_.

He reaches the lifts and jabs his fingers into a button. For a moment, he assumes nothing is going to happen. The entire building seems to be shaking around him, and the lifts aren’t there.

But then one set of doors opens. Just as the whole world seems to shake itself sideways, Harry leaps into the lift and pushes another button. He doesn’t care which one it is, as long as it gets him away from this crazy floor.

The lift says something in a cool voice and begins to move. Harry sighs massively when he realizes it’s up, and that the shaking has stopped. He forces himself back to his knees and looks down at the bag in his hands.

He has no idea if it’s everything the goblins asked for. He has a hard time thinking it is, when they did put the Sword of Gryffindor on the list. But he wouldn’t have known what the artifacts looked like anyway, which makes it a good idea to rely on that Unspeakable’s expertise.

The lift finally stops at the Atrium level. Harry relaxes. He must have pushed that button without realizing it. It would make sense, because it was always the level he went to when he needed to leave after a long day of work.

The doors open, and Harry steps out…

To stop when he sees the dozen or more drawn wands pointed his way, all from fellow Aurors, with a severely disappointed-looking Kingsley at the front of them.

Harry smiles at them. “Hi.”


	27. At Springtide

Harry straightens up from his kneeling position on the floor of the lift slowly. Half a dozen wands follow his movement. The other Aurors are aiming theirs at the back of the lift and to the sides, as if they expect hundreds of his allies to appear out of thin air at any moment.

Harry only wishes that were true.

He gives Kingsley a large smile. He’s already decided on the way he has to play it, the _only_ way until he can recover a little of his magical strength. “I must say, I wasn’t expecting this huge a welcoming committee for my effort to restore Ministry relations with the centaurs.”

Kingsley stares at him. “What?”

And that’s what Harry’s been waiting for, any crack in the confident façade, no matter how small. Harry nods and steps away from the lift. The Aurors track his movement, and he hears a threatening sound that’s probably made by someone who can’t control himself. Harry stops moving and nods again in understanding.

“These,” he says, and shakes the bag he holds, “are centaur artifacts that the Ministry has stolen over the centuries and hidden in the Department of Mysteries. I was bringing them back. I _did_ try to ask nicely, but the Unspeakables wouldn’t give them to me. Do you _understand_ how much these thefts have set back wizarding-centaur relations? _Centuries_.”

“But the centaurs never visit the Ministry!” bleats an Auror named Cochran, who Harry has disliked for a while. He never bothers to hide his contempt for Muggleborns, house-elves, and anyone other than pure-bloods and half-bloods with at least one prominent name in their family tree.

“And _why do you think that is_?” Harry shakes the bag again. “I’m just righting an ancient wrong.”

“If you truly wished to repair relations,” Kingsley says, looking a fair amount of constipated as he does so, “you would have come to me and talked about a fair way to do this. Not broken into the Ministry, Auror Potter.”

“But how could I, when I’m a fugitive? And you really should call me Lord Potter, you know. I’m not entitled to the other name anymore.”

Kingsley looks like he may have an attack of apoplexy right there. Harry watches him with the same smile, and darts his eyes around to the sides. The Aurors are spreading out a little. Not good. Or, well, maybe good. It all depends on the plan that he hasn’t come up with yet.

“Lord Potter,” Kingsley finally grinds out, which nearly startles Harry into laughing. _Oh, shit, I didn’t think his respect for the Sun Chamber was_ that _great_! “You appear to have misunderstood the situation. You cannot break into the Department of Mysteries no matter the provocation.”

“Well, I tried not to. But I told you, they weren’t reasonable.”

“You have to give back the stolen artifacts,” says Cochran in a commanding voice, moving forwards with one hand out.

“I completely agree. So if you’d let me get on my way to the Forbidden Forest…”

“I meant that you stole them from the _Ministry_!”

“I don’t see how, Auror Cochran. Reclaiming stolen property to return to its rightful owners is in no way a crime. Of course, the people who owned it may be entitled to some compensation if they bought it innocently under false pretenses from the thief, but since the Ministry is the thief in this case, they’re not.”

Cochran stands frozen, staring at him in wordless rage. Harry looks along the row of Aurors again, and this time he catches Weston’s eye.

He didn’t smile, which would give the game away. But he does incline his head a little, and Weston nods back. She’s ready to go along with any gambit that he can think up.

“The Ministry has perpetrated a long series of frauds and crimes against our non-human citizens,” Harry goes on, in the lecturing tone that Hermione uses so effectively so much of the time. “I was only trying to begin the first step at atonement. I would have preferred to work with people in the Ministry, of course, but since that’s not possible, and they won’t _listen_ , I acted on my own.”

“You are still under arrest, Lord Potter,” Kingsley finally says.

“What for? I’m not _stealing,_ I’m _returning_ stolen property.”

Kingsley looks so angry that Harry is faintly regretful he never tried this before. “For breaking and entering in the Department of Mysteries.”

“To reclaim stolen property!” Harry says instantly. “And I did try to get them to let me enter the legal way, but they weren’t interested in it.”

Kingsley waves a hand through the air as though he’s going to cast a spell any second. “I grow tired of these excuses. Even a Lord twice over can make mistakes. Make sure that you Stun him strongly and bind him with chains, not ropes.”

Harry nods to Weston then. He can’t move his wand without being noticed, but she can. He just needs a good distraction.

Either she figured out the same thing, or she’s a passive Legilimens, because she does exactly what Harry would have done in this situation. She whips her wand up and cries out strongly, “ _Lumos Solis!_ ”

The spell is just a little ahead of the Stunning and binding spells the other Aurors are beginning to cast. There’s a scream as almost everyone in the Atrium is blinded by the burst of golden-white light coming from Weston’s wand. Harry isn’t, because he thought to shield his eyes first, and then cast a weak Dimming Charm right over them that functions a little like a sunshade. He drops to his knees and elbows and wends his way forwards, through the chaos that is running legs and barked orders and dropping wands.

He hopes Weston won’t get in trouble, but he didn’t get the sense many people were looking in her direction when she cast. They will probably think that it’s just some overenthusiastic Auror or the allies that they thought were going to pop out of midair to aid him all along.

Harry only has to duck away from Kingsley once, and from other Aurors a handful of times. He makes it to the fireplaces, and finds them shut down. Well, that’s not going to stop him. A Blasting Curse takes more out of him than he likes, but it breaks the grate that holds the Floo shut.

Then Harry only needs to hurl a handful of powder, and the flames turn green around him as he tumbles forwards through the fireplace. He can hear people yelling at each other behind him, and he has to grin at the thought that they’ll all blame each other. They may even think he’s still there.

Although maybe not. Even in the middle of a battle, the sound a Blasting Curse makes is distinctive.

*

“You’re an idiot.”

Hermione doesn’t say that in a loud voice, though. Harry grins up at her from where he’s lying on the couch in a house that he put under the Fidelius a while ago. It used to belong to a woman called Cassiopeia Black, some kind of aunt of Sirius’s or something. Hermione and Ron are the only ones who know the secret of this particular Fidelius.

“You’re just pleased that I took those artifacts back to the goblins.”

“It’s something I would never expect of any other wizard,” Hermione admits, and then she sits down and gives a strong frown at Harry. “That doesn’t mean that it wasn’t a _stupid_ thing to do.”

“How so?” Harry asks her in all innocence. “The goblins got what they wanted, and they agreed to feed us information about the bill and cause a distraction for the Ministry. I think it’ll be a pretty good distraction, myself. The Ministry is always more afraid of a goblin rebellion than they should be.”

“Why should be?”

“It would be so easy to get along with the goblins if they didn’t do stupid shit like steal their artifacts.”

Hermione’s lips twitch reluctantly. “Anyway. You know that the Ministry is going to be after you now more than ever? And the Department of Mysteries, too?”

Harry calms down enough to nod. “I know. And before you say it, I know that the Unspeakables are dangerous because you never know who they are, they have artifacts down there that could kill me, they probably know more spells than I do, and they might even know a way around the Fidelius.”

Hermione slowly closes her mouth. “Am I that predictable?”

Harry pats her hand. “Only for someone like me or Ron.”

Hermione thinks about that and ends up nodding a second later. “All right. As long as you’re aware of the permutations of the risks.” She hesitates. “I’ve got the tapestry finished.”

“You _do_? You’re brilliant, Hermione! I never thought you’d trace all the threads so soon.”

“The free house-elves helped a lot. They were the ones who know what pure-blood families used to own the most of them, after all.” Hermione bows her head for a second. “You know that that isn’t going to be easy.”

“I know.”

“And the Elder Wand’s spell is going to cause a lot of destruction.”

“I know.”

“I just—Harry, is it going to be _worth_ it?”

“To really know the answer to that question,” Harry says quietly, intensely, catching her eye, “we would have to know the worth of all the Muggleborn ambitions that they’ve blocked, all the dreams they’ve destroyed, all the lives of the Muggles that they’ve baited and killed. And the worth of the dignity of the creatures they mocked or subordinated or enslaved or murdered. And the ones they’ll go on doing to that in the future if we don’t stop them.”

After a second, Hermione sighs. “I know.”

Harry reaches out and holds her hand.

*

“I can’t believe that you really intend to do this.”

Bill is trembling. Harry gives him a minute to recover, glancing away as he sips his tea and watches Fleur leading Victoire and Dominique in a demonstration of their Veela magic. It _is_ kind of overwhelming when someone hears the scope of his plan for the first time.

“Why tell me this?” Bill abruptly demands. “You—you could have told me anything at all, and I would have believed it. And—I don’t have anywhere else to go, anywhere else to turn. You _could_ have let me believe something crazy or harmless, and I wouldn’t be able to go tell anyone even if I thought you were lying.”

Harry turns back to him. “I want you to really be on my side. And that means understanding the full, mad scope of my plans.”

Bill gets up and paces back and forth in front of the table. Then he sits down again with a thump and says, “There are people in my family who would never agree with this no matter what.”

Harry nods. “There’s a reason that I had to use the Memory Charm on Ginny.”

Bill bristles, then sinks back. He’s already heard that story from Harry, and he didn’t take it well, but he also understands why it happened, which is more than Harry could say about some of the Weasleys. “All right. And Mum and Dad would—they’re gentler. They wouldn’t think that what’s happened is bad enough to justify what you told me. They would encourage you to work with the Ministry and the pure-bloods and attempt reform.”

Harry nods in silence. There are other things he could say—for instance, that Arthur thinks of Muggles sometimes as a child would fascinating toys, and that Molly’s sympathy for Muggleborns is mostly abstract. They don’t mean much to her unless she knows them personally. They’re not malicious, unlike a lot of pure-bloods, but they’re typically isolated and ignorant.

Bill already has enough to deal with, though. Harry wasn’t sure he’d keep him past hearing the truth about Ginny. And Molly and Arthur are still his family.

“So you intend to carry out this insane plan? With only the support that you have right now?”

“That includes a lot of goblins and werewolves and free house-elves,” Harry points out mildly. “I’ve killed a few members of the Sun Chamber, or been responsible for them being killed, and taken out some others by getting them imprisoned or so confused they don’t know what they’re doing. I wouldn’t underestimate me.”

“I’m trying not to. But I don’t see how even with your plan, you can actually bring down the Ministry.”

“You doubt the power of the Deathly Hallows?”

Harry makes his voice sepulchral on those words on purpose, but Bill doesn’t smile. “Honestly? Yes. I know they’re strong, but that doesn’t make them glad to serve you. How do you know they’re actually going to do what you want them to?”

Harry sobers long enough to shrug. “I don’t know for sure. But I do know that the Resurrection Stone is being confined within the bounds of a magic exactly like itself, and the Invisibility Cloak has never betrayed its owner, and the Elder Wand…”

“Yeah. That one, even you aren’t sure about, are you?”

“We _are_ giving it the chance to cause destruction and chaos on a mass scale that it couldn’t ever cause if it was just hopping from owner to owner and getting them murdered.”

Bill still looks a little sick. “And we’re risking the fate of the world on how well you understand the murderous instincts of a piece of wood.”

“That’s true. But look at it this way. The Ministry entrusted the future to no one ever finding out about the Sun Chamber. And to Muggleborns never getting vocal and resentful enough about their treatment to work together. And to house-elves being abused and mistreated by everyone.”

“Yeah,” Bill finally whispers. “I suppose, put it that way, you feel that you might as well use inertia for righteousness.”

“Right,” Harry says, and claps Bill on the shoulder as he stands up. Fleur and her daughters look as if they’re done with their magic practice, and Harry thinks that it’s probably best if they don’t meet up. He has no idea how Fleur really feels about this enforced hiding, which wouldn’t have happened in the first place if not for Harry’s rebellion. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

But Fleur comes in the door before Harry can go out the Floo. Victoire and Dominique stand behind her, their silvery hair cascading around their shoulders and their eyes as bright as moonlight. Fleur moves forwards with her hands held out. “Harry. I have wanted to thank you.”

Her accent is almost gone, so Harry can’t blame misunderstanding her words on that. He still blinks and says, “Huh?”

“For providing shelter for me and my daughters. For fighting for a world where they can attend Hogwarts and other schools and where they will not be feared.”

“Er, thanks? But it’s entirely likely that Hogwarts will be deserted, you know. Or maybe shut down for a while.” _Or destroyed._ But Harry doesn’t like to think about that even though it’s a possibility.

“Destroyed things can be rebuilt,” Fleur says, apparently answering his thought. She smiles at him again and kisses his cheek. Then she goes further into the house, already calling for Bill. Victoire and Dominique give him shy smiles and follow. Harry hasn’t spent a lot of time with Bill’s family, and doesn’t know them that well.

Harry stands there for a moment when they’re gone. Then he nods and casts the Floo powder into the fire.

It’s good to have a reminder of what he’s fighting for, after all.

*

“Harry?”

“Hmm?”

Harry opens his eyes. It feels like it’s three in the morning, and in fact, that’s what the clock on the mantel says. Harry rolls his eyes and casts Hermione an accusing glance.

Hermione just smiles at him and says, “Watch.”

She turns around and points her wand at the far wall. Harry sighs and sits up to look. His jaw drops when he sees the tapestry hanging there, a gorgeous forest-green with bright golden threads running through it.

The lines are all kinds of pure-blood families, and beneath them, written in smaller letters that blaze with silver light, are the names of the house-elves they own.

Hermione gestures again with her wand, and a third kind of line grows on the tapestry. This one is a color so dark that Harry can’t be sure it’s actually black, the way it looks; it might be dark blue or dark red. It races down from the top of the tapestry, and reaches out so it encircles all the lines of the pure-blood families.

Then it trembles and bursts into a herd of red sparks.

“It’s only a demonstration, of course,” Hermione murmurs, lowering the wand. “When it’s ready, then it’ll need to encompass so much more. But I can do it. I know that now.”

Harry seizes her in his arms and laughs and waltzes around the room. Hermione goes with him, laughing too. They wake up Ron, who comes to the door of the bedroom and stands there, shaking his head.

“It’s a good thing Mum and Dad can’t see you now, or they’d think you two were planning to run away together.”

“It’s three in the morning, Ron,” Hermione promptly says. “Go back to bed.”

“Look, all of us are up, so that means we might as well have something to drink,” Ron points out, in such a reasonable tone that neither of them can contradict him, and walks into the kitchen. “After all, we have something to celebrate!” he calls over his shoulder.

Hermione sobers instantly, resting her hands on Harry’s shoulders and staring into his eyes. “It’s really going to change everything, isn’t it?”

“Everything,” Harry agrees softly.

Hermione closes her eyes, and Harry sees the gleam of tears underneath the lids.

But in the end, she’s one of the three laughing as they clink their glasses of Firewhisky together.


	28. When the Apple-Blossoms

Harry settles back in a chair and looks around, sipping the hot drink that Kreacher insisted on giving him. Hermione isn’t happy that Kreacher is still acting like a typical house-elf with Harry, but as Harry has pointed out to her, _she_ is welcome to try and get him to stop. Harry isn’t risking that gauntlet again.

The drawing room of Grimmauld Place is full of his allies. Ron and Hermione are there, of course. Bill, Weston, and Londer. House-elves who freed themselves long ago and have been participating in the protests. Some of the wizards who were part of the raid on the Ministry, mostly Muggleborn but not all, unmasked this time. Neville, who has a faint smile on his face that tells Harry he has good news. Luna, who’s toying with a glittering string of what looks like tiny crystal balls chained together.

“Well,” Harry says. The room falls silent at once. He wants to roll his eyes, but someone will have to be in charge, as Hermione says. It might as well be him. “We’ve made some important steps in toppling the Ministry.”

“I thought you got yourself declared a fugitive, though,” says one of the Muggleborn witches, a Black British woman named Jerilene Osborne. “How does that help?”

“It means that I don’t have to kowtow to the Aurors anymore. And we still have a few spies among them, so we didn’t even lose that role.” Harry tilts his head at Weston and Londer. “They didn’t suspect you after you helped me escape with the goblin artifacts, did they?” he adds to Weston.

She grins at him. “No. I played myself off as someone too eager to capture you, because I couldn’t believe such a great hero would turn his back on the profession that he swore to uphold. They bought my soft-brained act, because, well. Muggleborns. They just don’t know any better, you know.” She tilts her head down and sighs.

“And what else?” Osborne demands.

“The goblins have agreed to join us.”

There’s a roar of noise at that, which is only beginning to die down when Hermione stands up and says, “I’ve completed the initial stages of my project to free the house-elves.”

“Leaving them the choices, yes?” asks one of the free house-elves sternly. He goes by Illam, and there are enormous gold rings in his ears that he keeps adding to the way Dobby added socks. Harry still misses Dobby when he looks at him. “To stay or go?”

“Of course,” Hermione says. “Although I think that most of them will want to find work with families who _didn’t_ do things like throw pans at their heads and make them iron their ears!”

Harry knows Illam’s earrings are there partially to hide old scars from irons and worse things. He nods in grim agreement, the rings softly tapping together. “But you are not to be making those choices when they are free, Hermione Granger. House-elves be making those choices.”

Even years later, Harry sees, Hermione still blushes at the reminder of the knitted hats she left lying around the Gryffindor common room to try and tempt elves into picking them up. “Yes, Illam. I understand.”

“I’ve collected almost all the magical signatures from the Sun Chamber in the keystone above my door,” Neville announces. “I’m missing a few, and there are some families where I didn’t know if I should try for the Heirs as well as the Lords and Ladies.” He glances at Harry, who thinks about it for a second. Some families have weird internal customs that put emphasis on the Heirs, and some don’t.

In the end, he says, “As many as you can, but don’t risk the success of the plan on trying to find more.”

Neville nods, his eyes shining, and Harry hopes that most of that shine comes from the desire and the ability to stick it to some pure-blood families, rather than because Neville thinks Harry is a great planning genius or something. He’s not. He just takes advantage of the huge gaping wounds their enemies leave in their defenses.

“I heard that Draco Malfoy is calling himself Draco Black now and taking orders from you,” mutters Londer. “Why isn’t he here?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t want to involve him in something bigger than he knows exists. And even if he takes orders from me, he might get tiresome about insulting Muggleborns. That shouldn’t be the focus of these meetings.”

“You’re willing to work with pure-bloods?”

“Neville and Ron and Bill and Luna are pure-bloods,” Harry points out. He understands Londer’s grief over her son, but he isn’t going to let it take over the meeting. “I would be willing to work with anyone who won’t betray me and has a good grasp of what we intend.” He ignores the way Londer’s mouth opens, and turns to Luna. “I know the good news about the fire spells. What about the chain you have now?”

Luna holds up her hands and displays the glittering globes. “They’ll form chains to partition off the unicorn reserves in the Forbidden Forest,” she whispered. “And whoever else doesn’t want to fight.”

Harry grins. “Excellent.” This is something Luna’s been working on for a long time, although as is common with Luna, he didn’t necessarily recognize the success when it manifested. “Well done.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Luna says, and laughs when Harry picks up one of the Weasleys’ cups and throws it at her. Hermione repairs it, shaking her head.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what she’s talking about,” says Weston carefully, as if she thinks that Harry will get upset with her for revealing her ignorance.

“There are some magical creatures who won’t join our fights no matter what, and who might be harmed otherwise when the rebellion breaks forth,” Luna says, her face losing its dreaminess. “The unicorns are one species of them. I think some centaurs might be as well. These chains will create Untouchable, Unplottable pieces of land where they can hide.”

“And you haven’t thought of offering something like that to humans?” Londer demands.

“So few people know about our rebellion at all? No,” Harry points out dryly. “Unless you think we ought to go out and announce it in the streets now.”

“Of course not! But there might be people who don’t want to fight for you _or_ for the Ministry who need a safe place to stay.”

“Only if they also agreed to release their house-elves, and utterly change their minds about Muggleborn prejudice,” Hermione says. “Given that Luna’s chains will protect anyone inside them from being affected by our spells at all, we would essentially be giving permission for people to still enslave other non-human magical creatures and be bigoted if we didn’t make them promise that.”

“But how can you know if someone tells you a lie about that? Or perhaps they sincerely intend to change their minds but won’t be able to at the last moment, because they have less strength than they thought. You cannot _force_ someone to change their minds.”

Harry smiles at her.

“You _can’t_ ,” Londer insists in a quiet hiss. “The magic doesn’t exist.”

“It didn’t exist before we started researching it. But neither did the magic to free house-elves without their owners giving them clothes, or to keep magical creatures safe from the war if that’s what they want.”

Londer stares helplessly at him. Then she shakes her head and mutters, “Then put it a different way. You _shouldn’t_ be able to change people’s minds. It ought to be immoral. That means that you shouldn’t do it.”

“I think I know the definition of immoral,” Harry says gravely. “But I’ll tell you the same thing I told you someone who complained about this the other day.” Briefly, his gaze crosses Hermione’s. She only blinks and looks blank. “If we don’t do something, the Ministry and the Sun Chamber and the bigoted pure-bloods and the wizards who just don’t _care_ about Muggleborns and magical creatures will keep doing as they like with no consequences. Ron and Hermione and I tried legal reform and persuasion for a decade. It didn’t work. There’s still this bill in front of the Wizengamot that’s going to strip rights from magical creatures no matter how idiotic that is when goblins guard our money. This is pure stupidity. Pure stupidity doesn’t get any more chances.”

“But what about people who aren’t in the Ministry or the Sun Chamber? They might not be helping us, but they deserve to have—”

“Another chance?” Harry breaks in harshly. “They did have it. They could have spoken up in favor of less restrictive laws on house-elves and centaurs and goblins and werewolves and Muggleborns and almost anyone else. They didn’t. Now the choice has been taken from them. That’s it, Auror Londer. I’m not going to listen to any more arguments.”

Londer sits back with her eyes gone wide and shocked. Her arms tremble for a second, and then remain at her sides. Harry is relieved. He really doesn’t want to alienate her and then have to throw her out with most of the past few weeks _Obliviated_ from her mind.

But if she does retain a lingering belief in favor of blood prejudice, then she’s going to be affected just like everyone else by the spell the Elder Wand casts.

Harry turns to Hermione. “How much backup are you going to need for this project? I know that some of our free elves are going to help you—” he nods to Illam, who nods back and makes his ears ring “—but how much do you need of wizards feeding you magic when you begin casting the spell?”

“The elf magic is going to be enough,” Hermione says quietly. “And the other things that we have helping me.” Harry nods; if she doesn’t want to talk about the Invisibility Cloak to the others, that’s her right. “But what you can do is cause more of those distractions that you said the werewolves and the goblins were going to help you with, so that pure-bloods are looking at those instead of their elves.”

“If you’re going to give the elves a choice, then how can you forcibly free them?” That’s Bill, who sounds thoughtful, not opposing them for opposition’s sake like Londer was. “I mean, what if the elves choose to stay with the family that enslaved them anyway?”

“Then elves still be having the choice!” Illam stands up to his full height, instead of sitting down like the other elves, and moves over to scowl at Bill. Bill blinks, but he doesn’t laugh, which Harry was afraid he might for a second. “Right now, they not be having the choice unless their family be giving them clothes, and then the breaking—” He stops, struggling for words.

“The bond that ties house-elves to certain families is unnatural,” Hermione says quietly. “But breaking something that deeply rooted in an elf’s being is still going to hurt. They might choose to stay for a while because they’re upset about it being broken. Or maybe they’ll negotiate for a better rate of pay or more freedom if the family didn’t treat them too badly. But the point is, right now they _don’t_ have a choice.”

“This breaking of bonds,” Londer says abruptly. “Is it going to free anything that shouldn’t be free?”

“Like?” Harry asks politely.

“What if it makes the restrictions that confine the dragons to the reserves fall apart? You can’t tell me you aren’t concerned for the Muggles if that happens, even if you don’t care about the effect it has on wizards.”

“Those restrictions have nothing to do with enslaving dragons,” Hermione says. “There’s nothing that _can_ enslave a dragon, they’re too wild. They’re just wards that hide the reserves and keep the dragons inside them, the way Muggle-Repelling Charms hide our houses. They’ll survive just fine through the rebellion.”

Londer nods, although she doesn’t look convinced. Harry supposes he’ll have to follow her home tonight to make sure that she doesn’t have any _indiscreet_ chats through the Floo.

“What about the trolls and things like that?” asks Kellah Jordan, a relation of Lee Jordan who gets discounted by a lot of people because her mother was a Squib. “Do you think we have to worry about them getting free?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Trust me to know what I’m doing, all right? I promise that the trolls and the others are going to be confined behind wards, too. There are magical creatures we enslave and shouldn’t, there are others we should treat better but we don’t, and there are some that we can’t negotiate with, like trolls and dragons. They’re going to be kept safe for everyone’s protection.”

“I don’t see how a tapestry can break house-elves free of the families that are holding onto them.”

Hermione smiles a little meanly at Neville, who knows a lot about their plan but nothing about the mechanics of this one. Honestly, Harry wouldn’t know himself if he didn’t have to be involved because of commanding the Hallows to do what Hermione said. “It’s all right. It’ll happen, and that’s all you need to know.”

Neville nods, looking satisfied. Luna looks down at the chain of globes wound through her fingers. “There’s going to be a lot of burning,” she whispers.

Harry nods and captures the eyes of people around the room. “Anyone who wants to leave Britain before the rebellion? You can do that. Just make sure that you warn me and that you give me time to cast the spells on you that will prevent you from talking about this with anyone. Then you can go wherever you like.”

“You talk about free will, and yet you’d bind people’s tongues?”

Harry is wondering now whether he should have brought Londer into their group at all. Perhaps the only thing that she has in common with them is dislike of the pure-bloods killing her son—but she doesn’t care if people other than her son die. “Yes, I would. That makes sense. I’m not going to risk the lives of people who trust me for the sake of a false ideal.”

Londer blinks and falls silent, blushing a bit. Harry continues looking around. “What about it? Does anyone already know that they want to leave?”

“What, and lose the chance to see them pay for what they’ve done?” Weston asks, spinning her wand idly between her fingers. “No, I mean to see this through.”

The others murmur variations of that, except for Hermione, who just scowls at him as if asking what in the world he’s thinking, and Illam, who folds his arms and shakes his head. “House-elves have been enslaved too long. We see it through.”

Harry nods. “All right. Then we need to reveal a few more things about our plans. We have the house-elf part completed and ready to work when Hermione can access the magic. Luna will string the chains to keep the unicorns and perhaps the centaurs safe, with their help.” He glances at Ron. Ron grimaces, and then stands up and walks to the middle of the room when Harry’s stare lets him know he hasn’t got a choice.

“All right,” Ron says. “So you might know that I’ve been negotiating with the Dementors—”

The chaos that erupts makes it clear that most of them did _not_ know that. But Harry doesn’t have to do anything to stop it, because Ron loses his temper first and waves his wand around wildly. A firework leaps out of it and pinwheels through the room, shutting everyone up fast enough that they’re left blinking.

Harry is grinning. He knows that Ron learned to do that from George.

“Anyway,” Ron says firmly. “I’ve been negotiating with them. They think that we’re willing to give them a bunch of our enemies so they can consume our souls.”

“But we’re not,” Neville says, a little hesitantly. He catches Harry’s eye, and raised eyebrows, in the next second, and flushes.

“Of course not,” Ron says, and he can roll his eyes better than anyone Harry knows. “They just _think_ we are. So they’re willing to act as another distraction for us, and then descend on the area in Diagon Alley where they think that we’ll have a whole bunch of helpless victims gathered and waiting for them. Except we’re going to have something else instead.” He grins at Harry, a little evilly. “I can tell them, right?”

Harry waves his hand, and Ron almost leaps off the floor as he turns around. “Magic enough to destroy them.”

There’s another outburst of chattering. Harry puts his chin on his fist and lets Ron deal with it. He’s been working harder and longer on this than anyone else, just like Hermione has on charting pure-blood lines and freeing house-elves. He’s the one who ought to defend it. And just like no one is going to tell everyone about Hermione using the Invisibility Cloak to help with her research, Harry isn’t going to tell everyone about Ron’s efforts being helped by the Resurrection Stone.

The Resurrection Stone, that calls back souls, and which when placed in the middle of a bunch of Dementors that think they’re arriving to _eat_ the souls...

Harry smiles. It’s not a nice smile. But at this point, he assumes that no one is going to notice.


	29. Being a Distraction

Harry cocks his neck so he can see around the corner. He arrived at the Apparition spot in Diagon Alley a few minutes ago, and he’s spent the time casting glamours on his robes and cloak. Not on his face, though. The whole point is to have someone recognize him. Or lots of someones.

And he has to admit: _this_ part of the plan, he’s looking forward to.

“Ready, mate?” Ron whispers behind his head as he adjusts his own cloak and robes. He looks resigned. They have to pretend to be enemies for right now, or at least Ron has to act as though he’s ambivalent about what Harry is doing.

Harry squeezes Ron’s arm silently. He knows this is harder for Ron than some of the other planning they’ve done, which is technically more dangerous. Then he nods and looks at the Alley expectantly.

Ron sighs. “See you back at the safehouse,” he mutters, and walks out of the little alley they’ve been standing in, a side one to the actual Apparition point.

Harry counts five minutes under his breath, during which time two wizards fortunately arrive at the Apparition point and walk out. That will lessen rumors that he must have somehow followed or conspired with Ron. Some people will believe those anyway, of course—Ron is too close a friend not to fall under suspicion—but at least he won’t make Ron’s life terrible instead of hard.

Then Harry walks out into Diagon Alley, looking neither right nor left.

It actually takes a surprisingly long minute for anyone to turn around and stare at him. And that’s _with_ the glamours of darkness on his cloak, trailing behind him and casting a magical shadow on the stones, and the ones on his robes that make them look as if he’s dripping blood and entrails to the ground.

Then someone screams, “It’s Lord Potter!” and the chaos that Harry was hoping for infects the alley.

Harry grins and springs to the top of a small stone wall around the front of someone’s door, then does his best maniacal laugh. He revised some of his memories of Voldemort yesterday so that he could do it right. He thinks he’s much better at it than Voldemort, really. He knows when to _stop_ and pose dramatically, whereas Voldemort kept it up long past the point when it intimidated people. Harry has been able to see things that he never noticed before in those memories, like Death Eaters rolling their eyes at each other.

Then he springs to the ground and begins to cast “curses” into the air. In reality, they’re harmless hexes and jinxes that _resemble_ curses, mostly in their color. All of them hit the stones of the walls around him or fly harmlessly into the sky, not that people notice. They scream and scatter and duck, and Harry does his practiced laugh again and turns around, swirling his cloak of ultimate darkness behind him.

“Who dares oppose _the Dark Lord Harry Potter_?” he cries, and dances in place when someone who looked as if he was reaching for his wand turns around and runs instead.

Sharp cracks of Apparition sound behind him. Harry smiles and looks over his shoulder. Behind him are several Aurors, including Weston. Good. She arranged to be on duty today, but they didn’t know if she would get a chance to be among the first responders to his “reign of terror.” This ought to help repair any of her credibility that got damaged with the other Aurors when she “accidentally” cast that overpowered _Lumos_ in the Ministry that let Harry escape.

“Put down your wand, your monster,” growls one of the young Aurors who looks as if he’s waited all his life to deliver that line.

“Come along quietly, and maybe you _won’t_ get life in Azkaban,” Weston adds. Her voice is quivering. Harry meets her eyes and has to look away. He just hopes that other people will take that shake in her voice to be terror instead of the bubbling laughter that it is.

“Why should I?” Harry strikes a pose with one hand on his hip and the other one resting behind his head. “I rather like it here.”

One of the more impatient Aurors casts a Stunner at him. Harry turns his wandless left hand upright and uses some of the magic burning in him to deflect that without casting a Shield Charm. That makes a ripple of gasps travel down the Alley.

“You dare to oppose the Dark Lord Harry Potter.” Harry repeats his grandiose words from below, shaking his head. “Then you will _become smears of blood on the ground_!” He whips out his wand with a flourish and jumps at them.

It’s a struggle to keep the flashy battle that ensues from becoming a rout immediately. Harry has the same training that these Aurors do, although admittedly more experience than most of them. The problem is that they’re just so _slow_. Harry can dive and roll and be out of the way of most of their spells before they’ve totally left the idiots’ wands. And most of them have no idea of strategy, such as lifting Shield Charms around them that _don’t_ impede their wands’ ability to cast curses.

Maybe Harry shouldn’t blame them, though. None of them had the experience of fighting for their life on a regular basis before they turned seventeen, either, and although Hogwarts has had the same Defense professor for a while now, many of these Aurors had at least a few terrible ones.

But he does blame them all he likes when he deflects a Stunner that actually drops two Aurors—the one who cast it and the one who ran towards him as if he thought that he could somehow tackle Harry with his bare hands. Harry stares at the Aurors lying stupefied on the ground and has to fight not to cover his eyes and groan.

“This is the _best_ that wizarding Britain dares send against the Dark Lord Harry Potter?” he asks, and manages to make his voice a roar instead of a sigh of disgust. “This is pathetic!” He doesn’t need to feign the revulsion in his tone at all.

Weston leaps forwards to challenge him, seizing the initiative the way she does sometimes in their rebellion meetings. “I challenge you to a duel, Dark Lord Potter!” she declares, and shakes her wand at him in a way that makes sparks scatter around. It looks very impressive if you don’t know how simple the spell is. “Just you and me, not any other Aurors! Do you think you can take a Muggleborn witch who doesn’t stand with you?”

That brings the crowd back instead of chasing them away. Harry grins as he hears more pops of Apparition. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement ought to be almost empty soon, which will give Hermione a great deal more time to search desks and files while her Polyjuice disguise lasts. “Yes, Auror! If you _dare_ to challenge me!”

“I dare!”

Harry spends a great deal of time stalking back and forth, stomping and muttering, looking at the ground, before drawing his wand and also drawing a dueling circle. The new Aurors who have arrived try to protest, but Weston’s groaning comrades—the ones still conscious—shut them up with chatter about dueling protocol. Harry turns around and plants another thundercloud on his face.

Weston is red in the cheeks and still struggling with laughter. Harry mouths at her, _Shut the hell up._

Weston gasps, but manages to get back into the game instead of spoiling it. “A duel, Dark Lord Potter! To the death!”

Harry manages to cringe, and then he says, “No! To first blood!”

“Are you _sure,_ Dark Lord Potter?”

“Of course I’m sure! It’s more challenging that way. It gives you a _smidgen_ of a chance, instead of a particle.”

Weston sneers. Harry sneers back. They hold their wands up and stand opposed for a moment, giving the photographers at the _Daily Prophet_ enough time to take an iconic picture (hopefully). Then they fly into it hammer and tongs.

Weston is using all sorts of actually dangerous spells, while Harry is using the flashy ones. Harry appreciates that she fell into that kind of wand-wielding without his having to say a word. They did discuss it as a tactic at the meeting, but so much of this is up to chance, including the fact that Weston was free to face him in the alley today instead of being assigned a different case.

Although, judging from the press of grim-faced Aurors along the edges of the dueling circle, even the ones on different cases have probably been pulled off them so that they can be present here to try and arrest him when the duel is finished.

 _Important word being “try,” of course,_ Harry thinks, as he spins out of the way of a Cutting Curse and sends back a Rolling Firework Spell at Weston, like the one Ron used to gain people’s attention back at the last meeting.

Weston leaps over that, her robes flaring extremely dramatically, and casts a variation on _Sectumsempra_ that Harry made safer and taught his fellow Aurors. Harry grins a little. There are people who will call that poetic justice, he thinks as he twists and lets his own cloak flare—and makes it appear that he’s just a _little_ too slow as he comes out of the spin and the spell catches him.

 _Nice one,_ he mouths to Weston as he sinks to the ground, gasping and waving his hands around. “I’m dying, I’m dying, I’m dyyyyyying...” he says, and lets his voice trail off and his head loll as his blood spreads across the cobbles.

For an instant, Weston looks dismayed in a fashion that might tell anyone the game was up if they saw it. Harry narrows his eyes. Weston wipes that off and looks triumphant instead.

With a side of constipated, of course. It wouldn’t be an Auror expression if she didn’t.

“I have triumphed over the Dark Lord Potter!” she roars, and shakes her hands at the sky.

Harry groans and places a hand over the cut on his chest, which is burning and bleeding freely. This version of _Sectumsempra_ doesn’t cause the endless bleeding or irreversible scarring that the other did, but it does hurt. That’s okay, though. Harry drives himself deep into the pain and even enjoys it when he sees the Aurors marching towards him in lockstep.

“You’re coming with us, Auror—Lord Potter,” one of them says, correcting himself at a nudge from the woman beside him.

Harry looks up and blinks as if dazed, then he whispers, “What?”

“You’re coming with _us.”_ This time the Auror puts a growl into it, in a way Harry approves of. He reaches down and grabs Harry under the arms, hauling him to his feet, even though he flails and squeaks pathetically (and does a pretty good job of it, if he does say so himself).

“I am?” Harry lets his head tip back and forth, the pain pushed to one side of his mind. This is the only kind of Occlumency that he ever mastered easily, the kind that lets him concentrate on the world around him and ignore what’s happening to his body. His hand rises, wavering, and lands on the button halfway down his dramatic glamoured robes.

“You are—”

Harry ducks forwards, as if slumping, and they curse and chase him. But his hand is already on the Portkey that Hermione made the button into long ago.

“I don’t think I am,” Harry tells their incredulous face as they watch him blur and swirl and burn away. “Bye-bye.”

*

“Please tell me you got what you needed,” Harry requests of Hermione as he leans back on the chair in the safehouse—this one is in the south of Cornwall—and lets Kreacher bandage him. Kreacher won’t use magic when Harry’s been wounded, but his bandages are the best Harry’s ever found to keep things from leaking out that shouldn’t. And it’s a cheap price to pay to keep him from complaining constantly.

“I did—what _happened_ to you?”

“Aurors.”

“Yes, I _know_ that! Did you let one of them wound you on purpose? _Harry_.”

“I had to! It had to look authentic. And it was Weston, so now she’s in good with her fellow Aurors who might have suspected her of helping me escape again.”

Hermione puts her head in her hands. “And for that, it’s worth having your chest all bloody and cut to shit,” she says, which makes Harry blink at her. He and Ron swear all the time when they’re talking about things the Ministry has done, even Luna sometimes goes at it when it affects the unicorns or other innocent creatures, but Hermione doesn’t usually indulge.

Then Harry sees her hands shaking. He reaches out and holds one. “I’ll be okay,” he says softly. “What did you find in the Ministry to upset you so much?”

Hermione wipes her eyes and sits up. “What, I can’t just be upset that you got hurt?”

“You would be, of course. But this is more than that, isn’t it?”

Hermione hesitates, then nods reluctantly. “Harry, some of those files I copied.” She stops. Harry waits. Then Hermione continues, quietly, “I thought I would just find that they gave lesser penalties to pure-bloods and the heaviest possible ones to Muggleborns. I thought—I was prepared for that.”

“What else did you find?” Harry asks softly. This is the reason why the Elder Wand and the spell it’s going to cast is _necessary_. There’s never a fucking bottom to the stupidity that the Ministry gets up to where bigotry and racism is concerned.

“I found—I found that they also arranged to give heavier penalties to people who were part-goblin and Veela. And a bunch of werewolves never even got trials at all!” Hermione bursts out. “Some of them were just executed by the Kiss. And on the line where they had to write the reason for requesting the Kiss, they just put _Werewolf_.” She slumps forwards and begins to weep. Harry gets up and gingerly hugs her close.

Hermione cries for long enough that Kreacher brings tea and holds it demandingly, silently, next to Harry. Harry ends up putting it on the table next to them, because Hermione can’t stop sobbing yet. Finally, she sits back and dries her tears, sniffling. Harry touches her shoulder and then leans forwards to embrace her again.

“Are you okay?”

Hermione nods and sniffles some more. “I just—I can’t understand it. Why do they _hate_ them so much?”

Harry can only give her the answers that he figured out for himself when he first began learning the history of how much the Ministry has discriminated in the past against anyone who wasn’t a rich pure-blood. “Because they fear them. And they’re lazy. They don’t want to _learn_. It would take too much effort to learn about the Muggle world, or how to keep werewolves and other people safe on the night of the full moon. So they just condemn them.”

Hermione’s hand reaches out. Harry conjures a handkerchief and hands it to her, but she grips his arm instead, staring at him. “But you worked for ten years to try and improve things. And then you went and found a way to change them.”

“Yes?” Harry says it cautiously. Sometimes, he can’t always follow Hermione’s mind when she’s springing that fast along some of the roads she takes.

Hermione says, “You weren’t lazy. You weren’t afraid. _Thank you_.”

Harry just says nothing, and holds her. Ron and Hermione have always stood by him, even when the path turned dark and dangerous. The greatest gift he can give them is to let them do what they need to do to maintain that strength.

Hermione finally pulls away with an exhausted little hiccough. “Luna has the _Quibbler’s_ presses ready to go.”

Harry isn’t sure that Hermione has finished working out all her feelings yet, but he also knows that she won’t say anything more about it right now. So he nods and accepts the change of subject. “How big does she think that she’ll be able to make this edition?”

“Big enough to accommodate everything I found.”

“Right, I shouldn’t have doubted Luna.” Harry hesitates. “She’ll have to go into hiding herself, once this edition comes out. And probably Rolf.”

“She’s already put her house under the Fidelius,” Hermione says softly. “She made me the Secret-Keeper. I’ll tell you and Ron the secret later tonight.”

“Just us?”

“After the way some of them behaved in the meeting the other day?”

Harry nods. He didn’t mean to trust the secret to Londer anyway, but he does think they could give it to Bill and Fleur. That’s about what Luna’s comfortable with, though. He doesn’t want to put any unnecessary strain on her. “All right. Then I’ll go open the safehouse in France, and you lot can work on putting the _Quibbler_ together.”

“The one in _France?_ The one you told me was filled to the brim with Dark artifacts the Blacks removed from the other houses they owned?”

“That’s the one.” Harry grins. As horrible as this is, as much better as the Ministry should have been in the past, he’s rather looking forward to unleashing some of the surprises that are waiting there.


	30. Bosom of the Dove

“What is going on to distract the Ministry from our Apparating to the Forbidden Forest?” Luna asks as she and Harry walk under the leaves, heading for a clearing near the center where centaur representatives have promised to meet them. Luna also thinks the unicorns will find them this way. Harry isn’t as certain, but he _is_ certain that he needs to hold back and let Luna have her way.

“We don’t need to distract the Ministry. We need to distract the Headmistress. And Hermione has descended on her, openly this time, with questions about Hogwarts’s history of relations with magical creatures.”

Luna laughs without opening her mouth very far. “It’s sad that we have to have the distraction in the first place.”

Harry nods. “It is.” But that particular sorrow is something he’s long since got over. Minerva was a huge support to him many times, but she could never follow him into this particular rebellion. He accepts that and tries to forgive her for it. At least he doesn’t think she’ll be someone affected very much by the Elder Wand’s spell, and she ought to be as grateful for the banishment of Dementors from the world as he will be.

They step around a great oak, and halt. That isn’t because they’ve reached their destination. That’s because they have a large centaur in front of them pointing an arrow at their chests. Harry doesn’t take his eyes from the bow. He can move before the centaur shoots, but he doesn’t want to risk exposing Luna to harm.

Luna doesn’t look alarmed. She only nods a little as if the centaur’s response is proportionate, even expected, and says, “My name is Luna Lovegood. This is Harry Potter. And we’ve brought these.” She holds up one chain of the glass globes.

The centaur, who Harry doesn’t recognize, tosses his long dark hair back and prowls closer with a tap of his hooves, staring at them suspiciously. Harry holds still. He lets the centaur examine the globes. Then the centaur steps back and says, “You will leave your wands here.”

Luna reaches into her robes and removes hers without hesitation. Harry does it with narrowed eyes. He has more concerns about the centaurs. They know Luna better than they know him; she’s been here many times. And even though he’s capable of wandless magic, he doesn’t enjoy using it and exhausting himself. Plus there’s the fact that the Elder Wand can’t come to him as a backup in times of danger anymore.

But the centaur glares in a way that says he won’t be allowed past until he does this. Harry ends up shrugging and tossing his wand to the centaur. “Play nice with it,” he says.

The centaur says nothing, but turns and leads them further into the forest. Now Harry can hear the swish of tails against flanks and the low murmurs of centaurs speaking to each other. Luna’s face is shining, the way it only seems to do when she’s surrounded by non-humans.

The clearing is large and has a sandy floor. There’s a unicorn mare, who has a sheen of silver that makes her look like tarnished ivory and which Harry thinks means she’s very old indeed, near the far side. She tosses her head up and snorts when she sees him, then takes a step backwards.

“Your friend smells of evil, Moon-Seer,” says a centaur Harry thinks is Bane.

“He works with a lot of Dark magic,” Luna says, and walks straight up to the unicorn, tugging gently on her horn and then her mane. “Behave. He’s doing it for you.”

The mare calms down, though she still keeps a wary eye on Harry. Harry stands with his hands held away from his sides to show that he means no harm. And he really doesn’t. He can _do_ harm if they attack him, though, so that part is misleading.

But all attention focuses soon enough on Luna, who spreads her chain of globes out. “If you agree, these can be strung around certain areas of the Forest so that you won’t be hurt by the human war that will probably explode soon.”

Bane, or the centaur Harry thinks is him, nods slowly. “We will want protection from the war, and these smell of pure magic. We will want to be well out of the war that _someone_ here will unleash.” He turns and stares accusingly at Harry.

Harry just looks back. Given what’s going to happen to the centaurs after the war, given that they’ll be in a world where no one can discriminate against them, Harry’s not going to apologize.

“It does mean that you won’t be able to venture outside those areas of the Forest or your other areas until the war is over.” Luna bows her head so that her hair shines in the sun that peeks through the trees. “I am sorry for your loss of freedom.”

Harry thinks it would sound condescending if he said that, or even Hermione, but Bane seems to accept it in the spirit that Luna means it. “We are sensible of the sacrifice that your own position entails,” he says, and stamps a hoof.

Luna nods and begins to explain how the globes work. It involves a lot of blending the centaurs’ and unicorns’ magic with the magic of the Forest and the trees, and Harry gets lost in the theoretical intricacies. So he just stands in one place and looks around. He’s not foolish enough to walk in circles touching anything in the Forbidden Forest.

His gaze sharpens towards something that looks like a dark splotch on the trunk of a tree. It could be a shadow, sure, except that the leaf cover is thick enough here that no shadows should be coming from that direction. The centaurs took his wand, but Harry doesn’t need it. He throws his hand forwards and murmurs, “ _Ignis virens._ ”

Green flames burst into being on his fingertips, flames that will not burn wood or any other living material. The unicorn mare snorts in horror. Luna turns around to stare at him with a pointed look. Bane bends a bow.

The shadow moves, a crouching wizard in a dark robe fleeing through the Forest.

Harry snaps his head, tracking where the man’s going, and Apparates in front of him as he gets ready to pass through a small clearing that Harry and Luna also crossed on their way here. The man, whose face looks familiar even though Harry can’t readily put a name to it, hisses and draws his wand. Harry flicks his wrist, and he’s Body-Bound.

Bane arrives with a clatter of hooves and does shoot the arrow at Harry’s head. Harry looks at it, and a gust of wind arises to make the arrow bend around him and lodge itself in a tree.

“How dare you interrupt the sacred peace of our glade with violence!” Bane is dancing in place with rage, kicking up his heels behind him, and maybe a centimeter from launching another arrow.

“All I did was call one fire that won’t hurt people or wood to illuminate the area better and bind someone. It was _you_ with the deadly weapon.”

“You bound our guest!”

“So.” Harry shifts his body stance enough that he’ll be able to fling a bolt of lightning at the stallion without hitting anything that might smolder. “You never really intended to take Luna’s offer and be at peace, then. You always intended to listen to what the Ministry might offer.”

“He is not _from_ the Ministry!”

Harry bends the air again the way he did to get the arrow not to hit him, and the wizard’s cloak falls open. Along the inner lining is pinned a silver badge that resembles a pair of eyes, but one is open and one is closed. Harry nods. The Watchers split off from the Department of Mysteries about a year ago to be the Ministry’s intelligence department. They’re usually good actors, and they could fool the centaurs as to their intentions. On the other hand, they react badly when they’re found out, and they almost never see combat.

_It would be so different if I was running the Ministry..._

But Harry never intends to do that, and in a while there might not be any more Ministry. He unpins the badge from the wizard’s robes and tosses it casually in Bane’s direction. Bane flinches and lets it fall to the ground, then bends down to look.

“How do I know this is part of the Ministry’s insignia?”

Harry sighs. “It’s a sign of the Watchers. The Ministry’s spies and, well, sort of intelligence department,” he adds when Bane stares at him. “He may have been your guest in the sense that he told you he only wanted to watch me and know what I’m planning, right? And he probably presented himself as a neutral party or from wizards that were sympathetic to the centaurs, right?”

Bane only stares at him. Harry shrugs. As long as Bane doesn’t interfere in him _Obliviating_ this bastard, it doesn’t much matter what he thinks. He wriggles his fingers, and his wand zooms to him from the entrance of the clearing.

That gives Bane his voice back. “You were _required_ to leave that with the guards!”

“Why? This wizard didn’t.” Harry uses his wand to stir the Watcher’s cloak back, and nods calmly at the wand hanging in a sheath at his side. “Now maybe it’s because he was your guest, but I’m not going to leave myself defenseless in front of him.”

Bane turns the color of fresh beets. “Coramis!” he screams, swinging around. “You told me that our guest wizard didn’t have his wand!”

“He didn’t!” A big chestnut centaur trots forwards, swinging his tail and snorting in agitation. “I would swear that he didn’t!” He stares at the wand holster on the wizard’s waist, then turns to Harry. “You! You planted it there!”

Harry gives a little sigh. Yes, the centaurs deserve to be well out of a wizarding war, but that doesn’t mean he’s not allowed to find them as tiresome as fuck.

“ _Obliviate_ ,” he incants, aiming his own wand at the Watcher. The man jerks and slumps in his Body-Bind. Harry catches Luna’s eye and nods. “It seems that I’m making a nuisance of myself here, so I’ll leave.”

“Not when you attacked our guest!”

“Are you naturally this stupid, Coramis, or does it take special practice?” Harry asks, interested.

The centaur roars and charges him. Harry shakes his head and Apparates out. He’s sorry for the damage he may have done to Luna’s attempt to save them, but he’s also sure that she can work on it and correct the damage if she wants to. The centaurs trust Luna in a way that they don’t trust him.

_And the way they shouldn’t trust a Watcher._

But that’s so completely not Harry’s problem right now. His problem is defending his people and making sure that their plans don’t spill out before they’re ready, and that he’s done.

*

“What exactly are we going to tell Molly about me going into seclusion for a month?”

“It might not even be that long, Hermione.”

But Hermione’s face is still set and stubborn, and Harry can understand. Molly is going to ask all sorts of questions, none of them easy. He puts his hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “We can tell her it’s a really intense research project. Remember that one you had the year you and Ron got married?”

“Yes, but in that case she knew...”

“We can tell her it just came up. No, I know! We can tell her that you’re being considered for the Unspeakables. She won’t be surprised when we don’t offer her any details then.”

Hermione gives him a wan smile. She looks at the floor then. “I never imagined that this would involve so much lying and sneaking around with Ron’s family.”

“It’s better this way,” Harry replies firmly. He’s absolutely convinced that Arthur and Molly and Percy and Ginny aren’t bad people, but that it would take far too long to persuade them that the Ministry is corrupt and that what Hermione, in particular, is doing is necessary. They don’t have weeks of time to argue. “They can adjust later. And they’ll adjust better than most of them since they won’t have as many prejudices for the Elder Wand to attack.”

“That’s true.” Hermione squares her shoulders. “And when it’s done, house-elves will have an actual choice.”

Harry nods. “Keep that in mind. We’re doing everything we can for them, and you’re doing more than most.”

Hermione sighs and picks up her wand, plus the small expanded pouch of clothes, books, blankets, food, and everything else that she’ll need to stay in the shelter for as long as the magic to free the house-elves will require. Knowing how much she managed to bring with her when they went on the hunt for the Horcruxes, Harry is satisfied she has everything. “I know. I wish it hadn’t been necessary at all, that people could have behaved sensibly from the beginning.”

Harry escorts her to the Floo, one arm over her shoulders. “Don’t worry. It’ll work itself out. One way or another now.”

Hermione pecks his cheek, her own face grim, and vanished into the fire. Harry watches her go, then turns back to the front of Hermione and Ron’s house at the same moment as an enormous shudder shakes it.

“What the _hell_ ,” Harry breathes. He knows Dark magic when he feels it. He didn’t believe the Lords and Ladies of the Sun Chamber would dare attack this place.

But when he draws his wand and runs to the front of the house, he sees it’s not them after all, although Shafiq is standing in the front row of a long line of wizards and witches. It’s people in Auror robes.

Harry stares at them in silence while they raise their wands again, and the Spiritual Earthquake Curse strikes the house. This is meant to bring down wards, protective charms, and any other kind of defensive magic keeping a place safe. It can destroy a Patronus. It can unravel spells that hold floods and fires and hurricanes at bay.

And the Ministry scolded _him_ for using Dark magic.

Harry steps back and considers for a moment. He doesn’t want to let Ron and Hermione’s house be destroyed, of course. He _can’t_ let that happen. And the Ministry already knows that he’s powerful, and that Shafiq fears him.

So there’s not much point in hiding now, is there?

Harry smiles and backs up a little. Then he rushes forwards, and uses a spell to fling the door wide open. It so startles the Ministry flunkies that they pause in their casting, which means the next pulse of the Spiritual Earthquake Curse dies away. It needs to be cast by many people working together.

Harry knows what he wants to do now. Shafiq has been an annoyance for long enough.

He locks gazes with her, and smiles. Then he brings down the fire that she tried to use to burn him to death.

It flares all along her veins, strikes up through her eyes and her nostrils and her brain. Shafiq has time for one hoarse scream before she drops dead, but even that doesn’t finish all the way.

Harry tilts his head at the Aurors who have been casting Dark magic. “Now, who’s next? I thought you’d like to face me on even ground, which means that I’ll duel seven of you at once. Would you like that? Or do you want eight or nine? That’s a bit fairer, I think.”

“You murdered her,” whispers one Auror who’s standing far enough back in the ranks that Harry can’t identify her.

“She was a nuisance,” Harry says cheerfully. “And I’ve had enough of nuisances.” It’s more than that, of course, because Shafiq tried to kill him and she might have collapsed Ron and Hermione’s house if he wasn’t here when she started this nonsense and he’s read the records. She made sure that more Muggleborns were imprisoned than any other member of the Sun Chamber, and she got so many pure-blood members of her family off for various crimes that they could fill a wing of Azkaban by themselves. The Shafiq family doesn’t have a lot of _direct_ heirs, which is apparently what matters to the seat in the Sun Chamber, but they have a lot of hangers-on and cousins and illegitimate children and the like.

But let them think he’s evil and insane. It fits the image that he’s trying to project, anyway.

The Aurors back up in front of him as Harry stalks towards them. He lets his steps roll and his hips shimmy the way that his Auror trainers tried to teach him to move. They thought he should use his fame and his reputation to win extra slack from the papers when the Aurors messed something up.

Harry thought they were ridiculous. But now he can use those same tricks to make them look ridiculous.

And himself. He’s mocking himself as much as them as he stalks towards them.

Mocking all the times that he thought he could do good. Mocking all the years that he tried for reform and went back to his friends when someone laughed in his face and planned with them to do it again.

They wanted him to be a Dark Lord. He won’t rule, but he doesn’t mind playing the part in other ways.

He halts in front of them. A dozen pairs of terrified eyes stare at him.

“Using Dark Arts in the open?” he whispers. “Tsk. Tsk.”

He raises his wand.

Several of them break, and Apparate. The ones who remain realize that they can’t cast the Spiritual Earthquake alone. They back away in a tight knot, looking for a moment at Shafiq’s body.

“Approach and claim it if you want. I don’t care what you do with the rubbish.”

One of the Aurors who has a look of a Shafiq relative very slowly edges out of the knot and casts _Mobilicorpus_. She makes the mistake of looking at the burned-out sockets of Shafiq’s eyes, and chokes. When she turns back towards him, her glance is full of hate.

But also caution. Good. They won’t die trying to take him on.

Harry smiles at them. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

They scatter. Harry turns and quietly walks back into Ron and Hermione’s house, where he knows he’ll find the right Potions ingredients to cast an unbreakable ward.

_This is the beginning of the end._


	31. Two Young Lovers

“Let’s see, mate. The papers have called you sadistic, evil, dark, smoldering, hateful, loathsome, masochistic—”

“That one obviously doesn’t have people who know the proper vocabulary.”

“Well, if they knew how much you hate the Ministry and how long you tried to reform it, then maybe they would be using it correctly.”

Harry snorts and closes his eyes. He’s lying on the couch in the safehouse in France, and Ron is with him, sorting through the papers that come from Britain, France, Ireland, and even further abroad. It seems that a lot of other wizarding communities are rejoicing at the thought that Britain is losing its savior to the Darkness.

 _Probably because we were a lot of smug wankers after the war with Voldemort,_ Harry thinks, and yawns. He received “invitations” from some of those countries to come over and defeat their Dark Lords after he killed Voldemort. That he told them to fuck off and handle their own problems did nothing to endear him to them.

Today, Harry would still tell them to fuck off. He just wouldn’t make any noises about his duty to Britain while he did it.

“Oh, wait.”

The note in Ron’s voice makes Harry open one eye. “What is it, mate?”

Ron swallows and holds out the paper. Harry takes it and glances at the headline. It’s another denunciation of him, nothing new, but then the photograph under the headline catches his gaze and holds it the way it must have held Ron’s.

Ginny is in the picture, leaning against Simon Morreth. Both of them look a little lost. When he turns to the article, he finds that Ginny is saying that she never really knew him at all and had no idea that she was dating, and then friends with, a cold-blooded murderer. Simon is just bewildered how a Lord can act this way.

“What are you going to do?”

Ron’s question is casual, but the expression on his face when Harry glances up isn’t. Harry shrugs and hands the paper back to him. “Continue on my course. If Ginny wants to come talk to me, then she can. I wouldn’t give Simon the time of day.”

“But—you know she’s going to be upset. Even though you made her forget everything.”

“I know. But since when has one upset person stopped me?”

Ron folds his arms and stares at the floor. “It’s just that she’s my sister. I don’t like to see her upset.”

“Don’t see her if she comes and tries to talk to you. Tell her that you don’t know where I am, but that she might be able to find out by sending an owl. And then I can be the one to deal with her. Or Simon,” Harry adds. He’s just going to end up sending Simon away, but it might be fun, a harmless thing to do in the face of all the harm.

“All right.” Ron stares down at his hands, then up at Harry again. “This _is_ the best thing, right? Really?”

“It’s the only thing,” Harry tells him. He can recognize and appreciate Ron’s qualms; he’s even grateful that he has best friends like Ron and Hermione to tell him if he’s about to get severely off-course. He just isn’t about to let it matter to him right now. He _can’t_ let it matter to him, not when he has to continue. Things were too late from the moment he decided to dedicate the Elder Wand to its spell.

“I know. But I can think…”

“You can wish that things could have been different? Me, too.”

Ron leans on the couch Harry’s lying on for a second. Harry puts a hand on his elbow and holds it there until Ron shifts impatiently. Harry takes it away and examines the ceiling to give Ron a moment to recover.

“Are we ever going to look at that vault with all those Dark artifacts and get ready to unleash them?”

Harry grins a little, letting his eyes slip shut again. “Patience, my faithful minion.”

When Ron punches him in the shoulder hard enough to numb his arm, Harry knows they’re going to be all right.

*

Harry opens the vault door.

It’s the real thing, a huge, gleaming steel-and-silver monstrosity in the bowels of the safehouse. It looms over them as if it wants to bite their heads off. Dark magic shimmers from it. Carvings of people strangling and otherwise dying horribly are scattered all across it.

Harry isn’t impressed.

“I am the rightful owner of all you bastards,” he tells the artifacts that shimmer enticingly from just beyond the door. “So don’t give me any shit, right? I’m going to take you out so you can cause chaos. Just let me take you out.”

He takes a step forwards.

The air around him turns thick and clogging in his lungs, and something weird and distant moans in his ears.

Harry holds up a hand. It seems to be moving more slowly than it should, but that’s not _his_ problem. He hits it against his shoulder, and the agony jolts up his nerve and blows away the fog as if it never existed.

Harry shakes his head. Sirius made him his heir. That’s something even the artifacts have to respect, but that doesn’t mean they won’t test him.

He sighs. “I _did_ ask for you to stop it with the shit, right?”

“Mate?”

Harry nods to Ron behind him, but doesn’t turn back. He knows he must sound insane, talking to things, but sometimes a Dark Lord has to do with a Dark Lord has to do.

He gets into the vault, and the air around him howls and twists. Harry can see shelves if he squints, but they don’t want him to see them. They hunch and shiver. Harry reaches out and puts his hands on either side of the vault doors, shutting his eyes.

The howls grow worse. The sense of an abyss just beyond his feet tugs at him. Harry tilts his head back and barks, “SHUT UP!”

There’s stunned silence, or at least Harry would characterize it that way. He grins and strides forwards. The vault floor is an ordinary floor under him, with significantly less chance of opening up beneath him to introduce him to a bottomless pit.

The nearest shelves hold grimoires full of spells. Harry passes them with a thoughtful glance. It’s not really new spells that he needs. It’s something so elusive that it’s hard to put a name to it, but he’ll know it when he sees it.

Then come the weapons: knives, swords, lances, pikes, maces, and more exotic blades or chains or crushers of flesh and bone, hanging on the walls and lounging on the shelves. Harry does pause beside a sword with a plaque beneath it that says BLADE OF ULTIMATE DARKNESS, but in the end, shakes his head and keeps going. Those would mostly be if he wanted to look frightening, and he’s already achieved that.

He circles more shelves, and hooks, and baskets, and thumping boxes with chains on them, and then stops when he sees a crystal pedestal in front of him. Waiting on top of it is what he’s been looking for. He smiles and reaches out his hand to grasp it, ignoring the fact that it’s buzzing warningly at him.

The carved crest of the Black family burns into his palm, but the burn is cold, as if he’s suddenly contracted a Frostbite Curse there. Harry lifts the carving high. It’s made of ebony, or obsidian, or something else black and expensive that he never bothered to learn the name of. It has the crest on one outstretched limb that Harry thinks is meant to be a wing. Its snarling face and jagged teeth and sleek body make it a little hard to tell what it’s supposed to be, but Harry braces the other wing on the wall, and then he can see.

An enormous bat. Harry nods. This is what he wants.

The frostbite is becoming a bit annoying. Harry rolls his eyes. “You can’t read my blood and get a close link to the Black family that way,” he says. “I have Black relatives by marriage, but not by blood in the last few generations. But it’s _me_ , all right? Sirius’s heir?”

That doesn’t seem to matter to the bat’s wing, which is still trying to eat his hand. Harry shakes his head and reaches down to grasp the family crest with his other hand, sending a shock of power into it.

There’s a soundless screech that still manages to make some of the books fall off the shelves and Ron clamp his hands over his ears. Harry continues shocking it. He’s had a few days to recover from the power that he expended against Shafiq and the other Ministry flunkies attacking Ron and Hermione’s house. He can do this all afternoon.

The wing abruptly falls limp in his grasp. Harry pulls his hand back. He doesn’t think he managed to break it, and it’s not exactly the sort of limpness that—

The bat is alive.

It turns its head and considers him, teeth an inch or so from his face. The wing in his hand is dangling and warm, blood seeming to rush through it and heat his palm. It’s welcome after the cold. Harry stares at the rodent—he thinks bats are rodents—blankly, waiting for it to make the next move.

The bat pulls away from him. Harry lets it go, but watches it warily. It swerves through the air for a few seconds, apparently beating its wings to make sure they’re still there, and then settles firmly on Harry’s shoulder. It’s so big that the weight makes him stagger sideways. That gets him a look that he’s sure is contempt.

“Why that thing?” Ron asks, his voice a squeak.

“Come on, Ron. It’s not as though it’s a spider.”

“But _why_ that thing?”

“Look at the pedestal.” Harry gestures, and Ron steps around him so he can also read the words that say, A TOOL TO DARKEN THE MIND.

“I thought you wanted people to think, not get rid of their thoughts.”

Harry shakes his head impatiently. “I gave them the chance to think, and they didn’t take it. _You_ think, Ron. Why would I want something that does this particular thing?”

Ron pauses, and then finally says with a faint grimace, “You want them to fear you and run in circles, not concentrating on putting you down the way they might otherwise.”

“Exactly.”

“I thought you’d caused enough fear already.”

“I learned from Voldemort. You have to keep it building, or people will ignore you as long as possible, the way that Fudge did when Voldemort came back in fifth year and then didn’t launch any attacks. It’s _possible_ that someone who has the time to slow down and think might get at the truth—that I don’t really want to be a Dark Lord or rule the world, and that if I knock down the Ministry, maybe I won’t replace it with myself. That would be disastrous. We have to keep them running.”

Ron nods. Then he mutters, “So how does it actually work?”

Harry turns to the bat. It stretches its wings slowly, luxuriously, and then leaps off Harry’s shoulder and rotates over his head.

Harry almost expects to fall senseless as the shadow of the wings passes over him. Instead, he finds himself wavering on his feet, staring at the far wall. He thought—he thought he came in here to find something, but now he no longer remembers what it was. And he thought—he thought he could walk in here because he’s Sirius’s adopted heir, but what—

He crumples to the floor. His breathing is too fast, he has to look at his spread hands, and he wonders for a second why he’s in here at all. He should get up and walk out, but the fear, almost a separate thing from him at this point, holds him captive.

A shadow passes overhead. Harry looks up and sees something circling near the ceiling. He focuses on it, blinks at it.

The shadow touches him and—

Harry struggles back to his feet, shivering. That was unpleasant to experience. He extends his arm, not sure if it will work, but it does. The bat stops circling and lands on his shoulder. The wings flare in, and then it’s clinging to his shoulder with claws and feet alone, its fangs wide in a grin.

“That thing is bloody dangerous,” Ron whispers, as if he thinks too loud a voice might make the bat spring off Harry’s shoulder and come after him. Harry nods.

“But it doesn’t cause stampedes and it will weaken my enemies,” he says, when he’s sure that he’s fully recovered his voice. “That’s why I’m going to use it.”

The bat chitters. Harry ignores the resemblance to cold human laughter, and walks out of the vault with the bat on his shoulder.

*

Harry narrows his eyes as he Apparates in near the Burrow. He isn’t going _in_ , of course. There are too many Weasleys who aren’t in on his secrets and might ask him questions or even detain him when he has no interest in being detained. He came back to the Burrow merely because it’s a convenient Apparition point for his hops across Britain.

But someone has heard the crack. Ginny turns her head and listens intently. Harry stands a good few meters behind her, the bat on his shoulder, and watches her. He’s sure that she won’t sense him. He’s under a combination of a Disillusionment Charm and another spell that muffles sound and scent and keeps his footprints from appearing in the wet earth.

“Harry?”

Harry says nothing. He’s sure that Ron and Bill and Hermione didn’t betray him. It’s merely a lucky guess, or maybe she listens to every crack of Apparition and hopes that it’s him.

“I’m going to speak as if it’s you,” Ginny says steadily, “because I need you to hear this. And if it’s Ron or someone else who knows where you are, then maybe they’ll tell you. Try to get the message right, please.” She draws herself upright, with a grace that Harry hasn’t seen since they broke up, and begins.

“I have no idea what you’re doing. I think that you mean to bring the Ministry low somehow, and then take over by force. And it’s _wrong_. It’s the same thing Voldemort did. You can’t make it right just because you’re the one doing it.”

Harry grins without humor. She’s yet another person fooled by the Dark Lord rhetoric that the papers have attached to him, then. They never would have suited even if they’d managed to stay together.

Ginny stares in the wrong direction and speaks passionately. “I would have thought you would know that, since you _died_ to save the world. You have to let people be themselves. If that means that they do things you don’t like, that’s their right. You can still protest and work for change, because that’s _your_ right. But you can’t forcibly take over and put them under your control as if they’re house-elves.”

_How Hermione would hate to hear that comparison._

“I don’t know what changed you so much. The man I loved never would have turned into a Dark Lord. Sometimes—” Ginny’s voice falters and sinks. “Sometimes I wonder if I should have remained at your side. Then perhaps you wouldn’t have turned to the Dark.”

_Don’t flatter yourself._

“I want to know what’s going on, Harry. I want to know what you think you’re going to accomplish. But perhaps most of all, I want to be your friend again. Find the heart and the soul that I know live in you and bring them out. If you want to talk to me, then we can start on that basis. Forget about dating and the past. Just listen to me as you would one friend with another.”

_Too late._

“Will you carry that message to him, wherever he is? Tell him that I’m waiting and I’d like to talk to him.”

Ginny stands as if listening, holding her breath. Harry stares at her and wonders for a moment if she could have joined him, if things were different.

But then, if things were different, he wouldn’t be struggling to bring down the Ministry and spread the kind of freedom that the Elder Wand’s spell promises.

Ginny’s head finally droops. She nods and mutters, “It probably wasn’t him anyway,” and then turns and walks back into the Burrow. Harry nods at her back for a moment before he Apparates out.

It is sometimes pleasant to imagine things that might have been, but honestly, Harry can’t think of a world in which he and Ginny would have suited. Some things are too wild for the imagination to bear.


	32. Would Have Read the Story

Harry chuckles as he glances out of the mouth of the Apparition point into Diagon Alley. There were wards up that were supposed to resonate with Dark magic and alert the Aurors if someone using it Apparated into this little alley. Harry tore them down, although they wouldn’t have worked anyway. He hasn’t used Dark magic here.

 _Yet_.

Harry strokes the bat. It turns its head and raises its wings at him. Harry nods and points at the alley with two fingers.

“I’m going to walk through the alley with a few glamours on. Go and confuse their minds so that they’ll be even more terrified of me after they see me.”

The bat takes off with nothing more than a few quiet flaps. Harry begins casting the glamours that will cover his face with soot and make his robes smoke as he watches. No one shrieks yet. The bat can control its shadow, then. He thought so, after watching its first flight around the vault in the Black safehouse, but it’s always nice to have confirmation.

When he’s covered with the reek and smoke of what will look like other battles, he steps out into the Alley and calls quietly, “Now.”

The bat spreads its wings and swerves back into view, although Harry only sees it because he’s looking for it. It’s high enough to look like an unremarkable bird from below. And its shadow swoops across the alley and falls on the wizards and witches who are walking by with bags full of food and clothes.

There’s a set of horrified shrieks immediately. They fall on the ground, staring at their hands and looking around with terrified, confused expressions the way Harry did in the vault. Harry plods past them, crouching down so that he can look into about every other face.

“I am the Dark Lord Potter,” he says, keeping his voice low so that he’s less likely to burst into laughter. “And I am going to burn the world.”

The words sink into their minds and throb there. Harry made a few more tests with Bill and Fleur, and that’s what happens when someone speaks while the bat is circling. He chuckles nastily—they’ll probably remember that as a maniacal laugh—and turns and ducks into another alley that he Apparates from.

He goes only a short distance, and the bat circles down and lands on his shoulder. Harry watches as it snaps its wings closed, and nods. He didn’t test what happens when the bat flies away instead of circling again to remove the fear it cast with its shadow, but it’s entirely possible that his enemies will _also_ decide that he’s cast some horrible curse.

Harry can live with that.

*

“The articles are getting worse.”

Harry peers over the top of his teacup at Luna. He didn’t expect her to be his first visitor of the morning, when he’s sharing the safehouse with Bill’s family, but it’s fine. “Which ones? Are they ones that we didn’t expect?”

Luna mournfully lays _Witch Weekly_ down in front of him. Harry leans over, expecting to see his photograph and an article printed vilifying him. Then again, that’s what they want, so it wouldn’t make sense for Luna to be so upset over it.

Instead, he sees a dark curtain of trees with nothing showing in it, while the headline proclaims, _CENTAURS OF THE FORBIDDEN FOREST: HOW MUCH CAN WE REALLY TRUST THEM NEAR OUR CHILDREN?_

Harry sighs and massages his forehead. His scar isn’t hurting, but in a way, he wishes it was. Voldemort was a simpler problem to solve than the tangled prejudices of the wizarding world. “All right. Do you want to take all the globes now and fence off those areas that the centaurs live in so they’re kept safe from the war?”

Luna nods. Her eyes are burning, but as Harry watches, they also fill with tears. “I don’t understand,” she whispers. “You didn’t say anything about the centaurs in your speeches or your attacks. Why are they turning against them?”

“Sensationalism. Because they’re wondering if I’ll go after Hogwarts next, and that turns their minds to wondering whether there’s a threat close to their children.” Harry reaches out and presses Luna’s arm, and is a little unnerved when she presses in to his side in response. “Did they say something about unicorns, too?”

“Near the end of the article. It’s not the main focus, but they’re wondering if they’re dangerous.”

Harry sits up. “Then you need to take the globes and get them fenced off, now. I assume the centaurs and unicorns have _agreed_ to be protected?”

“They’ve agreed. But I thought we would have more time.”

“I know. But we don’t. So I want you to start moving, Luna. I’m going to give them something else to focus on.”

“But what? If acting like a Dark Lord hasn’t, and even using Dark artifacts hasn’t made them—”

“Trust me,” Harry says, and glares at the article, noticing that the byline of the reporter isn’t one that he’s ever heard of, “they’re going to pay attention.”

*

Harry moves slowly into the Ministry under his modified Disillusionment Charm. He also has the spells that will prevent anyone from hearing or smelling him, although he honestly isn’t sure that he needs the last. There aren’t any werewolves or other people with sensitive noses working in the Ministry. We couldn’t have _creatures_ holding jobs around _normal_ people, could we?

Flames try to spring up around Harry’s hands. Harry grits his teeth and wills them down. His temper has to be kept in check.

Then he remembers what he’s come here to do, and he manages to smile as he finds a place in a lift that isn’t crowded.

The corridor to Kingsley’s office is mostly empty, not unusual for ten-o’clock on a Friday morning. Harry strolls down it and pauses with his hand a few centimeters from the door. Have they added any new traps?

It is, in fact, possible they have, so Harry wraps his fist with a soft cocoon of magic-dispelling charms before he knocks. It means that he’ll get rid of the traps without setting off the alarms that usually sound when they’re disarmed.

“Come in!”

Harry listens carefully as he opens the door. He can’t hear any other voices in the office, but he’s not going to take chances. It’s always possible that there _is_ someone there and they were being quiet.

Kingsley looks puzzled when the door swings open without revealing anyone, and he actually gets up from behind his desk and goes to look out into the corridor. Harry almost sighs as he steps behind him. Did _no one_ get any training? He realizes that not everyone’s been through a war, and that means they won’t have the instincts he does, but he’d _hope_ they wouldn’t fall for a trick this simple.

He lays the wand against Kingsley’s throat and drops the Disillusionment Charm. “Surprise!”

At least Kingsley tries to jab him in the ribs with an elbow, and when that doesn’t work, tosses his head and tries to break Harry’s nose with the back of his skull. It doesn’t work, either, but it shows that he has some elementary grasp of tactics. Harry dodges it, too, and then lays the wand harder against Kingsley’s skin. “No,” he says softly when Kingsley goes for his own wand. “I’m going to have to insist that you don’t do that, sir.”

“I’m not going to beg for my life if you intend to use me as some insane blood sacrifice,” Kingsley says, staring at the far wall of his office.

Harry blinks. “It’s usually the Dark Lord who makes the sacrifice that’s insane, not the actual person he’s killing.”

Kingsley actually turns his head a fraction before Harry tightens the grip on the wand and he faces forwards again. But Harry saw the stunned look on his face, and he knows that he’s slipping. He has to _act_ the part of the insane Dark Lord, no matter if he’s surprised by intelligence or odd diction on the part of his enemies.

He cackles into Kingsley’s ear, and feels the man relax. Now the world is back to normal, and Kingsley doesn’t have to deal with words that sound as if Harry might have a mind or a heart left that isn’t consumed by Dark magic.

“I’m going to walk towards the door,” Harry says, in as evil a voice as he possibly can. He can’t make it as cold and high as Voldemort’s, but damn if he isn’t going to try. “And you’re going to come with me, and you’re going to tell people beyond the door to react very _calmly_. Is that understood?”

“Understood.” Kingsley pauses a moment. “Dark Lord Potter.”

Harry takes a step, and Kingsley moves with him. He’s perfectly balanced all the while, his head lowered a little as he looks for holes in Harry’s defenses. Harry is once again impressed, although maybe Kingsley has an advantage over the rest of the fools in that he _was_ a combat Auror and part of the Order of the Phoenix.

They reach the corridor. The first person who comes around the corner is a trainee Auror that Harry used to teach basic incantations to; he was too stubborn to learn much. His mouth is opening now, and he’s on the verge of dropping his teacup on the floor.

“Mouth shut!” Harry barks, and jabs his wand into Kingsley’s throat again, making him catch his breath painfully. He remembers to cackle a second later.

The trainee Auror does shut his mouth, but he doesn’t maintain his grip on the teacup. It shatters, and a few doors fly open and people come running out, the ones who aren’t on cases. They stare at him in horror, and brandish more teacups and quills at him.

“Hold still,” Kingsley tells them. They all freeze in place. Harry carefully walks Kingsley down the corridor and to the lifts that will take them to the Atrium.

“What do you really hope to accomplish with this, Harry?” Kingsley asks, in the same kind of calm voice that everyone was taught to use in those classes on negotiating with hostage-takers. “Do you think that the Ministry will give you everything you want because you _threaten_ one life?”

“No, they’ll give me everything I want because I’m _Dark Lord Potter_ and I’ll collapse the building if they don’t!” Harry gives another cackle, and feels Kingsley stiffen and then shudder in front of him. Harry is content. If he slipped up with the comment on Kingsley’s wording before, at least this time it’s clear that Kingsley believes him.

“You wouldn’t do that, Harry. All that loss of innocent life…”

“That doesn’t give a shit about Muggleborns. That doesn’t give a shit about magical creatures. That dumped the burden of saving the wizarding world from the last Dark Lord on the shoulders of a ¬ _one-year-old_.”

Kingsley swallows, hearing the truth in Harry’s words—truth because Harry _is_ bitter about those things and thinks the Ministry is full of bloody adults who should have bloody well known better. “Can we—is there something we can offer you that would make up for that? Signed confessions? New trials for the Muggleborn criminals in Azkaban?”

“Not unless you can change the past.”

The lift opens, and Harry steps out into the Atrium. There are circles of people waiting for them, some Aurors, others Ministry officials, and Harry sees a few people in Sun Chamber robes. He snorts. He supposes they’ve given up on any vestige of keeping their little pure-blood club secret.

Kingsley tries to jab his leg backwards into Harry’s groin. Harry blocks it and tells him, “If you want to lose that leg, by all means keep doing that. I didn’t know you aspired to imitate Mad-Eye Moody.”

Kingsley tenses, but is still otherwise. Harry looks at the Sun Chamber people. “Yes?”

“Lord Potter, Lord Black, please wait.”

Honeywell pushes forwards. She looks like she’s been crying. Harry grimaces a little. Of course they would find the one traditionalist he doesn’t completely despise to talk to him. “Yes?”

“You have to see that what you’re doing is wrong,” Honeywell whispers. “I know that you’ve been given much to be aggrieved about, but please. Consider the loss of innocent life, and how you might make a difference if you let them live.”

“How could I make a difference?” Harry will let her talk for a bit. It’ll take him some time to gather strength for the next spell he needs to cast, the one that he sneaked into the Ministry to cast in the first place.

Honeywell stands straight and proud, as if she’s glad that he asked. “You could convince others that Lords and Ladies are good people to follow, after all. If you make restitution to the families of those you killed, and paid fines that the laws would require, and issued apologies for your dramatics in Diagon Alley, then I think there are many who would follow you.”

Harry only shakes his head. She’s not the smartest woman he’s ever met, but she’s trying to do good and be kind in her limited way. It’s telling, though, that even now, her priorities are those of a Lady of the Sun Chamber. “I’m to apologize for that? Instead of not being able to get justice for Muggleborns?”

Honeywell blinks and stares at him. “What do Muggleborns have to do with the families of those you killed? I don’t think the Shafiq line has any Muggleborn members. Or the Parkinson family. Maybe some half-bloods.”

Harry sighs. His body is starting to ache with the gathered magic. Kingsley stands a little further away from him, as if sensing that. “Please move out of the way, Honeywell.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to get sluiced with the fluids.”

Some people stare at him with their mouths open, and Kingsley seizes the chance, again, to try and make a dash for it. Harry shakes his head and casts the illusion that his gathered magic is fuel for. He has to cast it wandlessly and nonverbally, or it wouldn’t be such a big deal.

The illusion closes in around Kingsley like a net, and makes him vanish from sight. At the same time, Harry casts a Stunner under its cover. However, the illusion on the surface makes it look like Kingsley has exploded, rent limb from limb by Harry’s magic. Other Ministry workers flinch back with a shriek from the blood and guts and brains that threaten to “land” on them.

They’re staring at him, eyes finally as wide with fear as he always deserved. Harry bows to them and then shoots out a hand. He’s Levitating the illusion-disguised Kingsley with his wand, but the empty hand is what draws their attention. They stare at it as if waiting for him to grow talons.

“I leave you now,” Harry says calmly. “Perhaps you’ll think more about paying attention to _me_ instead of the hero that you’ve constructed in your heads. The Dark Lord Potter who exists, not the man you thought I was.”

In the intense silence, one of the Aurors shoots a Stunner at him. Harry moves aside from it with a sigh that he lets sound bored and patient. Inwardly, he approves. That’s better than he thought the Aurors were.

“My lords, my ladies,” he says, bowing mockingly to Honeywell, who has one hand at her throat and the other out as though she’s going to faint and wants to clutch something, “I leave you to the contemplation of your own foolishness.” He bows his head and vanishes into the ether that his illusion encompasses.

That sends them into another uproar, of course, trying to figure out how he could have Apparated from the Ministry. Harry moves calmly through the crowd, dodging when necessary, and floating Kingsley above his head so that they’ll be less likely to bump into him. Taking one of the lifts up is actually easy; people don’t think he’s there anymore. And then he gets outside, and can actually Apparate away.

*

“You didn’t kill him.”

“You think you know me so well?” Harry murmurs, lying back on the couch in the French safehouse and eating sweets from a tray the house-elves brought him.

“Yes.”

Harry grins and opens his eyes to look at Ron. “You’re right, I didn’t kill him. He’s under the Draught of Living Death in the cellar. Kreacher is going to look after him and feed him and make sure that his muscles don’t atrophy.”

“Until when?”

Harry shrugs. “Until after the Elder Wand’s spell. Luna is securing the unicorn and centaur areas with globes, and she’s going to talk to the merpeople. After that, we’ll be nearly ready.”

“I don’t like it,” Ron says, sitting down heavily on a stool as if he’s exhausted himself. “I don’t like that you have to make yourself into a villain for the sake of people who hate you.”

Harry shrugs again and closes his eyes. “I resigned myself to it. And it was kind of fun to see the looks of horror on their faces when they finally started realizing I’m not the hero they thought I was.”

“Yeah, I bet it was.”

Ron’s voice is a little bitter. “Three weeks, a fortnight,” Harry murmurs as he yawns and snuggles up into the couch. “Then it’ll all be over.”

Ron says something else, but Harry goes to sleep the sleep of the just, and doesn’t hear it.


	33. Read the Legend

Harry wakes up with a shout, his hand clutching his chest for a second. It feels as though something has ruptured there, as though someone has struck him with a curse—

And then Harry realizes what it is, and laughs a little as he shut his eyes. It went faster than he thought it would. Hermione didn’t need the full month after all.

As he drifts slowly back to sleep, he wonders how many pure-bloods all over Britain are waking up right now, and how many of them will dismiss it as a night terror and go back to sleep, and how long it will take them to realize that the bonds that connect them to their house-elves are now irrevocably ruptured.

Hermione will hide the bonds with the Invisibility Cloak. The elves will retain free will, and some of the might choose to stay with the families they’ve served. Others will negotiate for fair wages, and others will vanish at once, gone in search of family members they’ve been parted from for too long.

Harry is smiling as sleep claims him again.

*

“It’s front-page news, mate.”

Harry grins as he opens the _Prophet_ that Ron hands him. He thought it might take a while for the pure-blood families to report that they have broken bonds to their house-elves now, since it would mean making themselves look weak.

Apparently not. Because one of the freed elves chose to negotiate for wages in the middle of bloody Diagon Alley.

Harry claps his hand across his mouth so he won’t spew his porridge back out, and reads eagerly.

… _appears that the house-elves that belong to the Selwyn family no longer serve them. The elf, who called himself Elsinny, said that he never understood the concept of wages before, but he does now. “I never bothered to listen,” he said, shaking his ears and looking up at this reporter with an expression I can only call regretful. “It was like someone was speaking to me in a different language. But now the bond that let them lie to me is gone. Why should they have my labor and I have nothing?_ ”

Harry whoops under his breath. He perhaps could have asked for a Shafiq or Parkinson house-elf instead of a Selwyn one to make it completely perfect, but this is still great. He hands the paper back to Ron and grins at nothingness for a second.

“Do you think the pure-bloods are going to start petitioning the Ministry to get their elves back?” Ron asks, folding up the paper and sliding it into a stack of paper on the table. Most of those messages are pleas to Harry to reconsider his Dark Lord career or surrender himself or do something else equally idiotic. The _Prophet_ might make the stack a little smarter on the whole, Harry considers.

“They can petition the Ministry all they like. They don’t control the elves now.” Harry stands up and stretches. It’s the first concrete proof of their victory, and he can’t sit still right now. “I’m going back to Britain. I know a few places that I can probably spy on some of the Sun Chamber members. Or, hell, if they’re gathered in the Chamber itself, then my stole and my magic will still allow me to walk in.”

“Be careful, mate.”

“I’m going to be entertaining,” Harry says, and he winks and steps outside the safehouse before Ron can talk him out of it.

*

“How am I supposed to _function_ without house-elves?”

 _There’s this little thing called magic,_ Harry thinks, standing in front of the blazing sun on the wall of the Sun Chamber under his modified Disillusionment Charm. All he had to do was wait until someone else walked through the door, and then he could do it himself without anyone being suspicious.

The Chamber is a scene of chaos. There’s hand-wringing and actual breast-beating, which Harry has never seen before and finds amusing as hell. There’s moaning and complaining and pure-bloods getting in a duel about who has more of a grudge. Everyone is sure that Harry has a part in it somehow, and poor Honeywell is getting dueling invitation after dueling invitation, because she was the one who sponsored Harry into the Chamber in the first place.

Neville finally stands up and casts a Banging Curse at the ceiling to get everyone’s attention. He raises an eyebrow when they turn to stare at him and says, “Is it really that great a hardship to live without house-elves?”

“Of course it is!” Honeywell says back to him, although she seems to be taking it better than some of them have. Harry wonders idly if perhaps she just didn’t have all that many house-elves. “We need them to soothe our children to sleep, and take care of chores for us, and go to the shops, and clean up after us, and…”

“In other words,” Neville says in a flat tone, “you need them to let you keep being children.”

Silence, but only because, Harry thinks, most of the Sun Chamber is trying to figure out how serious Neville is actually being. Honeywell finally says, “Pardon? I assure you that the house-elves let us have time to be _adults_. They don’t—they didn’t bother us with the niggling tasks of life that other people can take care of.”

“Ah,” Neville says, mouth twitching. “My mistake. Then they didn’t let you be children. They let you be _Muggles_.”

This time, the screech is immediate. Harry leans back against the wall and does his best not to laugh and lead someone to him. He wants to stay and observe this, not duel half the Sun Chamber because they would mistakenly think he was here to give an invitation.

“What do you mean? How dare you say that?” Lord Burke is on his feet, waving his wand back and forth in Neville’s direction. He doesn’t look close to casting any spell, which is a good thing, as Harry would hate to decapitate him and get blood all over this nice floor. “We are completely different from Muggles!”

“Not really. You see, Muggles have machines that let them do all sorts of things. Wash clothes and dishes with a minimum of fuss, travel vast distances, clean up messes they make, ensure their carpets are sparkling…you’ve just treated house-elves like _your_ machines. You would have had to evolve better spells and wandwork long ago if not for them.”

“I assure you my wandwork is more than adequate to kill _you_ , Lord Longbottom! I challenge you to a duel!”

“Not a duel, please, not a duel!” Honeywell runs here and there, flapping her hands. “Too many of us are dying as it is!”

“It’s all the fault of that Lord Potter and Lord Black nonsense!” Someone whose name Harry never bothered learning, but who looks as if he’s related to the Goyles, leaps to his feet to yammer at Honeywell. “If you hadn’t sponsored him and told him that he had two Lordships—”

“We were supposed to keep that _secret_? How?”

“Better to keep that secret from him than to lose the power of keeping our existence secret!”

“And losing our house-elves!”

“We were respected! Lords and Ladies! Now we’re a laughingstock in the papers because they say that we can’t even counter some Dark Lord who’s the son of a _Mudblood_!”

“And for losing our house-elves!”

“I know that, I know that, Lady Everheart! I am only trying—”

“To lose us our house-elves!”

It’s glorious, and it goes on and on. Harry ponders revealing himself for a time, but honestly, he doesn’t need to to enjoy himself, or to do what he ultimately came to do. He waits until the chaos is at its height, and even Neville is looking as though he’s about to retreat.

Then Harry turns and faces that illusory sun on the walls that they’re so proud of, and swings his wand. There’s a splutter and a flicker, the way there might be from Muggle lights about to go off because the electricity is failing. Then it goes out.

That gets him even more staring, open-mouthed attention. At last Neville falls on his knees and begins to rend his clothes. (Harry knows for a fact that Hannah made him wear robes he doesn’t particularly care about today). “It’s a judgement on us! A judgment!” he howls with the best of them. “That the symbol of truth and purity has gone out rather than listen to our squabbles!”

That might be too much for even the more gullible members of the Sun Chamber on a regular day, but this is _not_ a regular day. This is a “we have lost our collective fucking minds” day. The shrieks that sweep across the Chamber would be worth seeing someone die of plague right in front of you. Harry hides his chuckle and makes his leisurely way to the door of the Chamber.

He has other stops to make.

*

Harry strolls slowly through the Ministry, listening to the plans for Kingsley’s funeral.

He still hasn’t decided if he should release Kingsley before the funeral. He likes the thought of wasting the time of people who right now are writing elaborate lists and battling each other for responsibilities that they think will make them look more prominent.

But then he sighs and shakes his head as he realizes that he can’t do that. It would make him look less like a Dark Lord, and he needs them to believe that at least up until the point when the Elder Wand’s spell rolls through their minds.

He pauses when he hears a familiar voice, and cautiously extends his head around the corner. Percy is standing with his hands clenched in front of Arthur. It looks as if they’ve been arguing for at least a few minutes.

“So this is the reason that Harry went mental!” Percy throws up his hands and stalks around as though he thinks that he’ll have to do that to keep from hurting someone. “I always thought that he was exaggerating, that—”

“He did exaggerate,” Arthur says, with a sigh and a shake of his head. “Listen to me, Percy. There are still plenty of good people among the pure-bloods. Some of them are idiots, of course they are. But that doesn’t justify destroying the world.”

Harry watches, and knows his mouth is gaping a little, although since he’s under the Disillusionment Charm, that doesn’t matter. What could have happened to make _Percy_ , the good little Ministry automaton, turn his back on his ideals? Harry is sure it has to have been huge, but he hasn’t heard about anything like that, and he can’t imagine that he would have missed it. His spy network is too good.

“Two people I trusted came to me this morning, and told me that I had to set up the paperwork saying that Harry was a bastard child and hadn’t really inherited from Sirius Black after all,” Percy whispers. “Because they’re more concerned about those _titles_ than anything else!”

“Well, there are some people who will stop insisting that Harry is right and we have to trust him after we strip him of his titles.”

Percy looks at his father as if he’s advocated drowning kittens. “And _that’s_ what we should focus on? And we should _lie_ to do it? Dad, Harry _is_ the son of Lily and James Potter, and they _were_ legally married! I can’t set up paperwork saying they weren’t!”

Harry relaxes a little. That would be it, then. Percy has been dishonest before, and followed dishonest people, but always when he sincerely believed their lies were the truth. Being asked to lie deliberately doesn’t sit well with him.

“I don’t think we should do that. But you can see why people are panicking and wanting everything dismantled, right, Percy? Knocking Harry down from his perch as a Lord would help a bit with that.”

“I’m not going to do it,” says Percy, and he carefully puts down the parchment that he’s holding on the desk next to Arthur. “You can do it, Father, since you don’t see anything _wrong_ with it.” He snaps his head at his father in a way that makes him recoil with surprise, and then turns and walks out of the office.

He walks next to Harry, so Harry can see the angry glitter of tears in Percy’s eyes. Harry watches him go. He never meant to break the Weasley family apart. But then, in a way he already had. Arthur and Molly know perfectly well, or ought to, why Bill and Fleur and their children went into hiding, and they have to know that Ron probably knows where Harry is but won’t speak of it.

Arthur picks up the parchment. His head is bowed. Harry would go to him and speak to him if he thought it would do any good at all.

But he knows very well that it won’t. Arthur would either pretend to listen to him and then go off and spread stories that would lessen the impact of what Harry’s trying to do, or arrest him right away. So Harry waves sadly at the man who might have been his father-in-law if things had been different, not that Arthur can see it from under the Disillusionment Charm, and walks father into the Ministry.

Yes, the room where they keep the wands that he promised the werewolves and goblins is still unguarded. Harry shakes his head with a different kind of sadness as he slips inside. He wonders if everyone is too distracted to bother with the guarding, or if they just never thought he would come after the wands.

“Stop right there.”

Harry halts. There’s a guard, after all, although she’s a young Auror trainee with more determination than sense. She also is obviously looking for the subtle shimmer of an ordinary Disillusionment Charm, since she has her wand pointed in completely the wrong direction. She only knows he’s there because she saw the door open.

“Halt!” she cries, even though Harry hasn’t taken a step forwards since she spoke the first time. Then she fires a curse at the wall. Harry rolls his eyes a little as he watches small chips of stone fall to the floor.

Well, he did have a plan in mind if he ran into a situation like this, although Ron told him off for being a right evil bastard when Harry mentioned it. Harry waves his wand in a careful pattern, concentrating on the illusion he wants to project. And then the image of a floating, dead Kingsley encompasses him, so that he’s a ghost.

The trainee gasps and almost drops her wand. “S-sir?” she whispers. “You came back? Are you going to haunt the Ministry?”

“Only if you don’t start respecting the bloody obvious!” Harry snaps, projecting the illusion of Kingsley’s voice as hard as he can. Voices have always been harder for him than images, since it’s harder to hold a memory of what they sound like in mind.

“I’m sorry, sir.” The trainee stands taller, her hands clasped around her wand as if she’s about to offer it to him. Her head tilts a little. “What do you want me to do?”

“We need to deny these wands to Harry Potter. He intends to break in here and take them for the werewolves and goblins.”

The absolute conviction in his voice, of course, is what makes the trainee put her hands over her mouth instead of on her wand. She looks ill. “That would be—that would be dreadful, sir.”

“Of course it would be! But I can’t move them, because I’m a ghost. I need you to take them to a safe place that I’ll show you.”

The trainee hesitates and glances at the door. “I don’t know if I should—”

Harry manages to imitate Kingsley’s long, disgusted sigh just fine, because he’s heard it so much. “Fine. I suppose that I’ll find someone more daring and more true to her training.” He turns the illusion so that it looks as if Kingsley is about to march out the door.

“Please, please, sir, _don’t_!” The trainee dances back in front of him. “I promise, I’ll move the wands! But I might get in trouble for it!”

“Do you want to get in trouble or do you want to serve your Ministry and save the world from the Dark Lord Potter?”

The trainee bows her head. “When you put it like that, sir…”

“Of course I’m going to put it like that. It’s the _truth_.”

Honestly, the hardest thing Harry has to do after that is keep the laughter out of his voice as he directs the trainee to move the wands to a storage room near his old office. She conceals them in her pockets and strolls with a forced nonchalance through the corridors that would bring most experienced Aurors down on her at once.

But no one is careful enough to notice her now, and she manages to tuck the wands away in the storage room without anyone being the wiser. She doesn’t hold her breath after Harry barks at her not to do it, either. Soon enough wands are moved that Harry thinks he can leave the others.

“We have to leave some here,” he tells her sternly in Kingsley’s voice. “Otherwise, someone who doesn’t have the good of the Ministry at heart might get suspicious.”

“That’s true, sir.” The Auror trainee pauses, her eyes huge. “You—you don’t have any messages to give me before you pass on to the other side, do you?”

“Yes. You’ve done well.”

Harry makes the illusion fade then, and leaves the trainee looking around in awe. He goes to the storage room and removes the wands, although he leaves illusory duplicates of them in place that will last a few hours in case she comes and looks, or loses her nerve and leads someone there. Then he ducks into the mostly empty lift that will take him down to the Ministry Atrium.

And he manages to get all the way home before he _does_ burst out laughing.


End file.
